


The Blue Rose

by shadhahvar



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Animal Attack, Animal Transformation, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Blooming Rose, Dance magic, Fae & Fairies, Fae Magic, Fire, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic-Users, Mythical Beings & Creatures, November/December Romance, Nudity, Sentient Castle, Slow Burn, Transformation, Vomiting, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2018-10-26 10:26:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 126,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10784979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadhahvar/pseuds/shadhahvar
Summary: Fairy Tale/Beauty and the Beast AU.It all started with a rose.  When Yakov returns home half frozen one winter night on the back of a strange black pony clutching a blue rose in hand, Victor steps up to take responsibility and finds himself entangled in the life of a mysterious fox-man named Yuri.  Yuri's life in the solitude of his magic castle, kept company by a sassy horse and invisible servants, compels Victor in spite of himself.  Now facing the puzzle of Yuri's curse, the strange damming of magic in the castle, and his own growing fascination with Yuri, Victor steps into the unlikely role of mentor to help Yuri face down his personal demons long past when Victor's free to leave.Life and love take a few unexpected turns as they work together to restore Yuri's confidence in his dance magic and try to solve his personal mystery before things spiral out of control.





	1. in which yakov returns home, and victor takes up a sudden quest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vagrancing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vagrancing/gifts).



> Bells pealed out across the quieting landscape of the city, a last call for the wary to retreat indoors and out of the deepening shadows of the night. Wooden storefronts and homes above them loomed on either side of the street, shutters closing, doors locking for the night. Victor pressed his lips into a thin line, picking up pace into a jog down the narrow street. A whistle called the curly-haired dog investigating a nearby door to his side. The two of them cut through the chill air, feet and paws a steady beat against the cobblestones.

Both man and dog had flirted with the city-wide curfew before. Winter's short days and longer nights made it almost inevitable, but they'd never been out quite this late. Not when they were blocks away from the small house they rented with the other members of the Feltsman Troupe. The only saving grace was there were still three nights until the new moon. Most witches who'd gone missing in the past year were reported as last being seen the day of the new moon, not three days beforehand. 

Snow had begun to fall in earnest, thick, gentle flakes drifting in spirals down through the dampened silence of the evening. Light blazed out of the rippled glass in the windowpanes lining the street, illuminating lives of people tucked safely inside. Electric street lamps flickered and whined overhead, fighting to stay lit. Surges of magic in this part of the country had a bad habit of overloading their circuits. City officials had installed emergency breakers, shutting down the system when the surges moved beyond its capacity to safely manage. It meant nights without electricity, often without warning, but in theory it also meant fewer electrical fires. He wasn't sure if that had been proven either way.

He shivered, keeping his balance on the slick surface of the cobblestones, groceries bundled in arm. It felt like hours before the faded, chipped paint of their once-brightly coloured door showed further down the way. It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes. Makkachin's tail wagged once as she pulled ahead of Victor, her chocolate coat peppered with snowflakes, impatient to be out of the weather.

Wind whistled overhead, tugging at Victor's scarf as he caught up with Makkachin at their door. She turned her head up toward him, lifting a paw and placing it beseechingly on the door, pushing with a soft grunt. He smiled in spite of himself. It was hard for him to not feel his spirits lift when he witnessed the tiny engagements of his dog with the world around her.

“Ready to warm up by the fire?” Makkachin's tail thumped against snow-dusted stone, Victor shaking his head as he turned the handle and threw his shoulder against the thick wooden door.

She flowed through the opening before it was wide enough for Victor to enter. The wind and snow followed at his heels, snowflakes swirling in through the open door to scatter across the pitted, polished wood inside. Three heads were turned to face him as he shouldered the door closed again.

“Cutting it close,” Mila said in a mild tone of voice, resting her newspaper against her chest. Her red hair was left loose tonight under a knit cap, a gift from Yakov.

“I got caught up haggling with the baker.” He grinned, ignoring the way that the blond by the fire frowned and glared at him. Makkachin padded up to the young man, flopping herself down by his feet. He surreptitiously edged his toes away before reaching out to scratch behind her ears. “You'll like the end results, even if they didn't stay as warm as I'd have hoped.”

Georgi rested his mending in his lap. “Here I was hoping for a more exciting story. Flirting with a lover, daring the curfew for a few last loving words, a lingering kiss...”

Yuri made a gagging noise from over by the fire, sparing Victor from needing a response. “You're going to make me vomit, and I haven't even eaten yet!”

“What better time than now?” Mila said, folding her paper and leaping up to her feet. She danced to Victor's side, liberating the grocery bag from his arm and carrying it off to the table. “You won't be losing anything if you do. You know where to find the sink, Yura!”

Yuri pulled his hand away from Makkachin, rising to his feet with a fluid motion that lost all grace when he came stomping toward Mila and the table. “Go sink _yourself_ , hag.”

Victor carefully stepped out of his boots, leaving them by the door with the others while the familiar bantering and arguing rolled over him. Mila pulled out his spoils from the market, finding the still warm pirozhki buried under the day old bread, nestled on top of the dried beans and potatoes and the jars of pickled tomatoes and cucumbers. Yuri leaned in to grab the folded napkin with the pirozhki tucked inside, eyes lighting up. “They're still warm,” he said, setting the bundle down on the worn, well-kept table with a grin while Mila picked up the jar of pickled tomatoes and cradled it to her chest. “I get first choice!”

“Oh? Vitya brought everything back for us. He should have first pick while Yakov's still out.” Georgi breathed out through his nose, carefully pushing his needle into his pincushion. Setting aside the mending completely, he stood to join Mila in putting away their supplies. Or would have joined Mila if she hadn't taken to dancing herself across the cramped room with the pickled tomatoes, making happy little sounds and leaping over Makkachin's haunches as she passed the hearth. Makkachin's tail thumped once against the floor as she went by.

“Because he's an idiot that stayed out until after the bells rang for curfew?” Yuri stuck his tongue out, snatching up one of the pirozhki and retreating to the fireside. He sat on the hearthstones with Makkachin, wrinkling his nose. Victor figured it was a further expression of Yuri's opinion on what Georgi had said: Makkachin hardly smelled.

“I was on my way back before the bells, Yura.” Pulling out the last of the potatoes to set on the table, Victor picked up the empty bag to hang on a hook by the door. “Makkachin and I hurried as soon as we heard the hour strike.” He helped Georgi finish putting everything away in their larder, looking more promising now than it had in the last month.

Yuri snorted, either unimpressed or uncaring. Victor suspected it was for show. The youngest of the troupe, Yuri both drove himself relentlessly forward and dismissed the words of his elders depending on his own confidence levels. He had yet to handle a decent amount of magic on his own. Victor knew Yuri needed to work on his fine control before then; he was sloppy and carelessly so, but even Yakov had a hard time making Yuri listen. Victor had next to no luck at all.

He puzzled over this as he picked up a pirozhki, stepping to the side as Mila finally relinquished the pickled tomatoes to the larder. She reached around him to snag one of the remaining pirozhki, Georgi taking his last. The fifth left on the table was wishful thinking, just in case Yakov had made it back today. By now Victor was resigned to expecting him next week.

“No news from further South?”

Yuri ended up answering him around a mouthful of half-chewed food. “No. Nothing. It's like the old man went and _died_ down there and no one's bothered telling us.” Grousing over it, he shoved the remainder of his pirozhki in his mouth. A sudden, keen sense of homesick yearning took the young man by surprise, leaving him silent and staring into the flames. The fire burned in a soft, almost morose and thoughtful way, mirroring Yuri's mood.

Victor took this in, guessing at some of what crossed the young man's mind. He made himself smile, tone of voice deliberately light. “Oh, someone would have told us! He might not have been performing dance magic for years, but he's still well known enough someone will believe people out there can afford to pay for his funeral.”

Mila threw a threadbare pillow at Victor, smacking him in the stomach. He blinked in mock surprise and fixed her with a baleful look. “Stop being so macabre! And stop making those eyes. The injured puppy thing won't work on me, Vitya!”

Georgi laughed, heels kicked up on the chair Mila had vacated earlier. “The joys of family,” he said, taking a bite of his own pirozhki. Victor chose to ignore him.

“What about Yura? No pillow to the head for him?” Victor tried to keep himself from smiling. It was a monumental effort.

“He's too close to the fire.” She said archly, turning her nose up in the air with her lips quirked up at the corners. “I don't want to accidentally burn my _second_ favourite pillow.”

Looking over his shoulder toward Victor, Yuri grinned. “Which means I never get pillows thrown my way – “

“Yes,” she said, agreeing too readily, casually moving closer, “I have to take a more direct approach when it comes to you!” Mila shoved her pirozhki into her mouth, crouching down and pulling Yuri into a headlock to ruffle his hair. The younger man cried out and shoved at her arm, squirming to get away as Georgi and Victor found themselves laughing at the spectacle of Yuri's outrage. Even Makkachin seemed amused, head up and turned to watch the two dance witches in their impromptu semi-wrestling match on the hearthstones. Once they were like this, they could go on for half an hour, if not more.

Tonight, half a minute after their wrestling match had begun, a resounding _boom_ from the door shattered the playful mood in the air. All four people jumped, heads whipping around to stare at the door in confusion. The thumping came again, sounding for all the world as if the one responsible was trying to kick the door in. Victor and Georgi exchanged looks, Makkachin surging to her feet and barking. Mila let go of Yuri, both falling into a ready crouch. No one would come looking for dancing witches at this time of the night when none of them were known for their healing magic. At least if it came down to a fight, Victor supposed, they'd give better than most not trained in the battle arts. They were all adept at creative use of their magic.

The fire behind Yuri and Mila roared higher, curling around the edges of the soup pot. Victor edged toward the door, moving silent over the boards, knowing where to step and where to avoid. Realising he'd neglected to arm himself before moving, he crouched down, grabbing one of his heavy boots. He glanced back toward the others as he stood. They nodded, one after another. Victor breathed in, centering himself. Then he reached out and threw the latch open.

At first nothing happened. Then the door shuddered under another thunderous _boom_ , one he felt travel through the wall at his back. He grit his teeth, expression grim and focused as he reached out to turn the handle, shoe in hand. The handle gave way with no resistance from the outside; no assistance either. The thundering sounds ceased. Whatever was responsible for them seemed to have a sense of what was about to happen. Victor would have liked to have that same sense of things. When he hauled the door open, standing behind and to the side of it, ready to fight, he was caught off guard _again_. Instead of any person standing there, known or otherwise, he found himself confronted by a neatly groomed black pony thrusting its snow-covered head inside. Wearing a halter with no bridle, the pony filled the whole of the door-frame, just shy of proper horse height. Makkachin barked once more, this time in welcome, tail wagging furiously as the pony twisted an ear toward her, turning its head to the side to eye all the occupants of the room. It caught sight of Victor and his boot with a snort, tossing its head in quiet amusement.

The pony invited itself in along with the wind and falling snow, unshod hooves meeting the wood in dull, deliberate thunks. It seemed utterly unconcerned with the situation at hand, let alone the strangeness of it all. Smaller than a proper horse though the pony might be, it still filled the small space with its bulk. All that would have been startling enough if Victor hadn't also found himself staring at the slumped form on the pony's back. Yakov Feltsman barely clung to the saddle, unhealthily pale, eyes squeezed shut, frost on his lashes. His overcoat showed fresh rents and tears, as yet unmended, but no sign of blood.

“Yakov?” Victor called out his name as he jolted into motion, stepping forward as Georgi moved to the other side of the pony to help. “Yakov, what happened?”

Georgi had a hand on their troupe leader, frowning. “He's alive. Cold, but alive.”

“He came in from the storm, of course he's cold,” Yuri said, straightening up and eyeing the pony. The pony watched him in turn, head to the side to keep Yuri out of its blind spot. The two of them stared each other down for a few seconds before the pony dropped its head, rubbing its nose against its knee in apparent disinterest while Victor and Georgi worked on pulling Yakov off its back. Yuri cursed, pulling one of the narrow bedframes closer to the hearth. “We need to warm him up. Now!”

“We're working on that, Yura.” The half muttered acknowledgment slipped out as Victor tried tipping Yakov in his direction. Ice had stiffened the outer layer of Yakov's coat and his gloved hand holding on to the pommel, making it difficult to pry him loose. Between Georgi and Victor's efforts at breaking the layer of frost that had bonded Yakov to the saddle, he would be freed before long. The black pony braced itself, legs splayed enough to keep it steady through the manhandling of its passenger. Mila came around to Victor's side, helping support Yakov's weight as he was pulled off the saddle. The two of them hauled him bodily toward the bed Yuri had prepared by the fire, finding him slow to react, but rousing.

Yuri twitched with nervous energy, edging around the pony in order to close the door. He frowned, hunching his shoulders and then jutting his chin out to challenge this interloper. “Are you staying inside?”

The pony curved its neck to look back to Yuri. A nod came after an extended moment of consideration, too deliberate to be anything accidental. Yuri grimaced, unhappy, then leaned his shoulder into the door and forced it closed. He managed to shove half the snow that had drifted in with Yakov's unorthodox arrival back out. 

Yuri shuddered afterward, not in response to the chill air that had invaded the warmth of their small home. There was magic that had come in with Yakov and the pony; a heavy, provocative slide of intent that had the small hairs on the back of Victor's neck standing on end. Yuri was as sensitive to magic as Victor was. He had little doubt he was feeling much the same way.

To say nothing of the pony itself: some sort of intelligent, likely magical creature. Victor would have been tempted to believe the feeling of this magic was related to the pony if not for how it centered on Yakov, plucking at Victor’s awareness. What in the world had happened to Yakov between when he left the Southern cities and now?

Yuri stalked past, pulling blankets off beds to pile them on their troop leader. Yakov stirred as blankets were draped over his lap, muttering under his breath, too indistinct to make out.

“You're home, Yakov,” Victor said, speaking low and quiet, a murmur of sound he kept up as Mila helped him start to pull off the stiff, cold fabric of Yakov's outermost layer. “You got back to us. Brought in something unpleasant with you by the feel of it,” he added, glancing toward the pony. Adding, “Not you.”

The pony snorted, canting its head to the side. It was well aware of what was being said. Victor found that unnerving, but his immediate concern was the same as everyone else in the room: Yakov. Even Yuri shared that focus. Yuri, who approached the pony and told it in no uncertain terms to move its arse over and stop blocking the center of the room. The pony regarded Yuri and his glare for a moment, tail flicking as it thought. It moved politely off to one side of the room after, stepping more daintily than it had when it entered the small house.

“Vitya, look.” Mila's quiet statement pulled Victor's attention back to Yakov. He was still muttering, every few words clear enough to understand. Victor could make out a repetition of the words home, and blue, and cold. It took him following the line of Mila's gesture toward Yakov's lap for him to finally see what had caught her eye.

Yakov’s left hand clutched a single, impossibly beautiful blue rose, untouched by the frost that had coated him. A rose that was the exact, whimsical gift Victor had asked for when Yakov set out, certain that as always he'd return empty handed. It was more a joke than an expectation. Another reason for them to laugh about the changed circumstances of their world, as impossible as the blue rose.

Yet here it was now, impossible to deny or dismiss. As he stared at the rose the slick sensation of intent, of a calling, grew even stronger. Mila reached out to touch the flower; Victor shot his hand out to grab her wrist. A firm shake of his head no to her questioning look had her close to protesting. Only the seriousness in his eyes forestalled that small rebellion.

“Let me.” They'd need to take the flower from Yakov in order to get him in dry clothes, bundled and warming up in front of the fire. Victor could feel the magic coiled around the flower, binding it to Yakov in some way that he couldn't make sense of; not until his hand was on the stem, fingers curled over Yakov's cold, gloved hand. There was a tug, a sense of urgency to return to wherever the flower came from. The sense of obligation was strong enough that even Victor felt it; he glanced sharply to the pony, who met his look from an angle. The pony nodded its head once.

It was waiting to make a return journey. With the flower, and whomever held it. The three of them were bound together: pony, rose, and man.

Yakov came fully aware as Victor sat at his side, bare hand over the gloved hand clutching the blue rose. He jerked back, near to falling without Mila and Victor keeping him steady.

“Vitya, Mila?” Yakov glanced beyond them both, to Georgi and Yuri ladling soup from the pot hung in the hearth, bringing it back to Yakov's bedside. “Yura, Georgi.” He paused again, trying to pull his hand away from Victor's. Victor held him still, lips pulled down into a visible frown. Yakov was guarding the flower as if he was trying to guard them from something else.

“Yakov, you had us worried! What a dramatic arrival on an unfamiliar pony, carrying a gift for me, of all people.” Victor smiled, a small, searching expression flitting across his features. Yakov's response was immediate.

“No!” Yakov lurched toward Victor, taking hold of his upper arm with his free hand. “No, the beast, the monster that – the roses, those gardens – I'd remembered you asking, but I – damn it all, I'm here to say goodbye!” All this blurted out as a series of tangled half sentences, Victor holding back another frown even as Yuri and Mila both broke out into questions of their own.

“What beast?”

“What do you mean, goodbye? Did you lose your sense out there, old man?”

Georgi held the soup in its bowl, taking a seat next to and behind Mila. His own concern was evident on his face, for all he kept silent. He settled the bowl in his lap to reach out to lay a hand on Yakov's leg. At the contact, he went pale.

As a witch with strong empathetic magic, Georgi was sensitive to emotion, though only through touch. He'd long ago learned how to use his dance to communicate emotion back out to others, to keep his own contained, and keep others separated from himself for the sake of his sanity. Yet his reaction now was to strong emotion; Victor recognised the signs. He could feel the distress spilling over, trying to yank hard at his heartstrings. Georgi was projecting without a focus.

“You're serious.” Georgi had never looked so hurt in his life, not even when his last girlfriend had broken it off with him. “You're leaving, and you expect you're going to die.”

Yuri and Mila both burst out in protest, the pony standing to the side of the room flicking its ears back to lay flat against its skull at the sudden increase in volume.

“Yakov, he can't mean that.” Mila leaned in toward Yakov, blue eyes uncertain.

“You have to be joking!” Yuri's hands fisted at his sides, small frame trembling in anger and a sharp spike of fear.

Victor swallowed down his own protest and made himself think, hand around Yakov's as they both held the bespelled rose. There was a story there, one that needed explaining. For all their sakes. Including Makkachin, who had nosed her way into Victor's lap, whining low in the back of her throat.

“Yakov,” he said, voice deceptively calm and light. “Please start from the beginning. What beast? Whose gardens? What happened after you left the Southern cities?”

Yakov frowned, eyes sliding to the side to take in the distress on Georgi's face, the confusion on Mila's, the anger and edge of desperation in Yuri's. Only Victor looked calmer, owing more to Victor's ability to remove himself from immediate emotion than true calm. Yakov was the closest thing to family he had. Makkachin was family too, and so were his fellows in the troupe, but Yakov had been the one to take him in years ago and train him to use his magic. He'd been the one to recognise Victor had magic, that orphaned or otherwise, he still had talent and potential. Yakov had been the one who'd yelled at and trained and been constantly exasperated over how little Victor seemed to listen, especially as their small troupe gained members. Proud of how Victor had managed to bring life to the stories in the music he made, touch the hearts of his audience with the dances he performed. Watched over him as he learned to craft magic with a subtle, exact control, even if his natural inclination toward water and ice made him a finicky practitioner.

No, he wasn't only family. Yakov was the closest thing to a parent he'd ever known.

Victor waited, saying nothing else. Yakov met his eyes, knowing the possibilities in speaking the truth.

He cleared his throat. Frowned more severely, considering his options. In the end, he spoke.

“I was traveling back with a caravan. The weather cooperated until two days south of here. We were hit by a storm that rolled in out of nowhere. You know the kind. They're the ones the mountains around here are infamous for. Anyway, we made camp once pushing forward became too dangerous.” He paused to swallow. Yuri stood to move toward the table and grab a mug, pouring from the pitcher to the side. He returned and handed the water to Yakov. Yakov took it with his free hand, staring down into the mug. He continued speaking without taking a drink.

“We had to dig ourselves out the next morning. When we did, we found out we'd gone off course, deeper into the woods than we wanted to be. Deeper than is safe, damn it all.” His voice was hoarse, gruffer than usual. Georgi offered the soup without a word. Yakov settled the mug of water on his lap before he reached for it over the rose. Lifting the bowl to his lips, he blew on the surface, breathing in the smell. A spoon would be an unnecessary encumbrance.

He tipped the bowl back, taking a small sip of broth. Lowering it, he continued on, eyes focusing on each of his dancers in turn. “Wolves came. Not normal wolves. These were larger, meaner. Touched. They stalked us for miles before they attacked, howling back and forth the whole time. I've never heard anything like it before.” He shuddered, looking even more grim. “I never want to hear anything like it again.” Makkachin lifted her head to lick at Yakov's elbow before returning her chin to Victor's lap. Yakov barely reacted, unlike every other time where he gruffly would tell her to stop.

“We ran. As much as anyone can in the snow, laden down with full sleighs of supplies and goods for trade. Another storm was rolling in. I got separated from the sleigh I'd been with. I walked, and I rode, and I walked, and I found what I thought was a wall. It blocked the worst of the wind, so we followed it until we came to a gate. Three of the wolves found us then.” He frowned, looking almost sad. “Philou fought them off for as long as he could. We should have both died.”

He took another small sip of broth. Everyone, even the pony, seemed to be waiting for him to continue. Yuri's patience broke first. He was halfway through asking, “Then what,” when Yakov shot him a quelling look and continued.

“Then when one of the wolves had me pinned down, something changed. The wolf on top of me was thrown off, and the other two driven away. Whatever was responsible for it moved fast. All I remembered was something big and dark, walking oddly. It asked if I was okay. I tried to answer before I passed out.” He lifted his shoulders in a half shrug; there were no apologies or defensiveness in him when he stated that fact. It was what it was. A man in his seventh decade fighting wolves and trekking miles through deep winter snow without food and ready water that didn't steal precious heat from his body to make was not in prime condition. As if his present condition didn't make that abundantly clear.

“When I came to, I was inside by a fire. There was a thick comforter on top of me and pillows scattered all over. No one else was there in the room. I couldn't hear anyone around at all. I found water, bread, and sausage all sat on a small table, laid out for eating. I waited for anyone to come by, spending time looking myself over for injuries. I could feel bruises around an arm, but no breaks. Scratches on my stomach that barely bled. Most were scabbed over. No one ended up coming, so I said thank you to my host, and I ate.” He lifted the bowl as if to emphasize this point, closing his eyes for one brief moment. “Then I tried to leave. Except I couldn't find my damn way out of where I was, which was frustrating enough that I was seriously considering climbing out through the first open window to get out. I ended up finding one of the back doors into what I thought was the garden. It turned out to be a massive greenhouse, warm in spite of the season, filled with countless living, growing things. Most I've never seen in this region before.”

Yakov sounded wondering in that moment, as if the memory of this sight was enough to steal away some of the horror of his own impending doom. There was a definite sadness in his features as he continued, but Victor already knew. Not about the beast Yakov spoke about, but about what Yakov found.

The evidence was clutched here in their hands.

“That's where you found the rose.”

Yakov frowned at Victor, nodding slowly. His head swam with the motion. He held himself still to regain his sense of balance, eyes closing for a matter of seconds before they opened again to focus on Victor. “More than one. There were so many, it felt like I was walking through a waking dream.” He lowered his hand with the soup to his thigh, letting it rest there. Makkachin lifted her head to sniff, then lowered her head once again. She didn't like the way Victor held himself, too straight, too still. She listened as intently as she could to understand what was going on, much like the rest of the troupe watching Yakov with varying degrees of worry evident on their faces.

“You took one. Because you remembered I'd asked for one.” Victor had almost forgotten that request himself. It was the same one he'd been making the last five years, every time Yakov ventured out on his own. A whim.

Yakov grimaced. “Vitya, stop interrupting! Who's telling the story here?”

He smiled, eyes half closed. “You're taking too long.”

Yuri leaned in to punch his shoulder, Yakov snapping at the both of them as Victor bore the blow without blinking. “Sit back and listen! Yes, I picked a damn rose before I thought about it, and that's when he found me. The Beast. The master of the castle, or manor, or whatever the hell that place was!” His voice was louder, more colour flooding back into his face. “He called me a thief and an ingrate, said he'd helped me recover and this was how I repaid him? Since I'd taken something from him, I owed him something in return. A life! He tells me, a life for a life! If the rose won't be living with him anymore, than something else will! What kind of policy is that anyway?”

“A shitty one,” Yuri said unprompted.

“An extreme one,” Mila added.

“An emotional one,” Georgi said soon after, tapping on his chin and looking toward the ceiling. “Absurd, irrational, and emotional. If this beast grows the roses himself, he might well love them enough to make absurd claims.”

Yakov sighed, tipping his head forward in a nod of acknowledgment. Anger still showed in the line of his shoulders, however hidden by layers they remained. Only Victor withheld commentary for the time being.

Which wasn't to say he didn't have opinions on Yakov's story and his Beast. Victor privately agreed on the absurdity of the demand. A flower, no matter how lovely, wasn't equivalent to the whole of a life, but in a moment of anger people made ridiculous claims. The problem in this one was the binding nature he felt in the rose. Whomever or whatever else this Beast was, he was also a powerful witch. Maybe even a magician, with the spell he felt coiled around the flower. He was still considering that spell while Yakov continued talking about the loan of a mount from the stables and the reappearance of the wolves. Details he perhaps should have paid attention to, but he didn't. Victor was coming to his own realisation about magical bargains and their constraints.

This Beast Yakov had met wasn't inherently unkind, or so he could hope. It seemed more and more likely to Victor that the reason Yakov had lived had much to do with the beast discouraging the wolves from eating him in the snows in front of the manor gates. Demanding a life in exchange for a rose was extreme; it was an angry decision. More rational ones might prevail in the end, but Yakov was already predisposed to assume the worst, and the whole of the troupe would never last without him. Victor knew he was more whimsical than responsible for the lives of his fellow dancing witches; Georgi was too much heart, not enough logic. Mila was probably the most sensible, but she was young and feeling out the world still, not ready to lead their troupe. Yuri was so ready to take on the world he often tripped himself up in the effort. There was very little he handled with diplomatic grace, and most of that on sufferance for Yakov's sake.

Victor felt the moment his decision was made. The rose felt it too, coiled magic loosening its grip on Yakov to send tendrils toward Victor. Experimental, almost tentative in its touch at first. He made himself relax, breathing out in a sigh and offering a solemn sort of smile to Yakov. He knew Yakov wasn't as sensitive to the feel of magic as Victor was, but shortly enough, he'd realise what was transpiring. As Victor didn't struggle against the magic, it flowed more readily over him, winding around his arm, over his shoulder, around his chest. _Return to me. Stay by my side._

The Beast had requested a life for a life. He'd never specified whose. Victor plucked the rose from Yakov's hand, gently nudging Makkachin back as he stood. Yakov's mouth dropped open, stammering before he tried to lunge after Victor. Makkachin whined, looking between her master and his lifetime leader, tail lowering as Victor moved toward his boots. Or one boot. He'd left the other by Yakov's bedside. Poor planning on Victor's part.

Shoving one socked foot into his boot, he ignored the shouting at his back as he reached for the door. They'd need it open before he addressed the pony

“Vitya, no! You can't! You impulsive, selfish idiot, this isn't one of your fairy tales with the happily ever afters. If you do this, he'll kill you!”

“Or he'll let me live, Yakov.” He pulled the door open, staring out into the night. The wind had died down, though the snow still fell in fat, clumping flakes. A few drifted in past Victor, landing on Makkachin's curly fur. She tucked in close to Victor's legs, refusing to leave his side. “You don't know that. He could be lonely in addition to an avid horticulturist. You said you didn't run into anyone else?”

“No, but – “

“Mm. Yura, Mila, Georgi, take care of Yakov. I'll send word if I can. Winter's my off season anyway.” He flashed them a smile that would never make it to his eyes. “You'll be fine. Most the routines can be tweaked for three instead of four, and who knows? This might even be all figured out by spring.”

None of them believed it. No one wanted to say as much out loud.

“Victor!” Yuri pointed, lips pulled back from his teeth like he was snarling. “You can't! Isn't it fucking tradition that the youngest in a family has to deal with this shit? I can manage! Some stupid flower-loving backwoods asshole of a talking animal will be easy for me to handle!” The fire sparked at his back, agreeing. Victor kept his eyes on Yuri. That fire was the exact danger that his younger troupe mate couldn't yet control.

“Yura,” he said, voice calm and level. “I don't remember being adopted by your grandfather. Do you?”

“What?” The blond drew back, visibly stung. Victor kept smiling, perfect and cutting. It was both truth and a lie.

“We're not family, Yura. Not in the way that matters for this.” He rolled his wrist, prompting the rose to complete a little circle. “Found family, yes. Not adopted, and not blood related. I'm an only child – just like you.”

Yuri spluttered, incensed, while Victor reached for his coat. Holding the rose in his mouth, he buttoned up and added his scarf, tucking the ends into his collar. Yakov called out from the bed, lifting his fist and shaking it in his direction.

“Yura, sit down. No one except for me is going anywhere, do you hear me? Vitya! That means you!”

Victor continued to ignore him, walking back toward the bed to carefully grab his other boot. Yakov reached out, hand latching around Victor's upper arm. Georgi watched with a troubled expression, hand resting over his heart.

“Are you listening to me? Vitya. I won't lose you.”

Rose still in his mouth, Victor lifted his eyebrows in mute question. Yakov glared at him, eyes showing more fire now than they had when he first had opened them tonight. The heat and his own anger were doing wonders at fighting off the cold and the fear. Victor thought he was grateful for that much, even as he could feel his own heart hammering in his chest. The tic of his pulse at his throat would be a dead giveaway for anyone other than Georgi. Georgi wouldn’t need the tell to know Victor’s calm was more artifice than reality. It was politeness that kept Georgi quiet even now.

However it had played out, it was Victor's whim that had landed them here. It wasn't for Yakov to pay that price. Victor would find a way through. It's what he did. Besides paired with the fear and the uncertainty, there was a spark of something closer to... curiosity? That had to be it. He was curious about this Beast and his gardens. What kind of person would spend time cultivating blue roses? There were worse fates to face than grumpy, dramatic, angry personalities. After all, he already knew Yuri.

He reached up, pulling the rose out of his mouth and holding it to the side. “A blue rose, Yakov?” Silence fell between them both. They'd be arguing again in a moment, which was why he leaned in to press a kiss to Yakov's cheek. “ _Dasvidanya_.”

He pulled his arm out of Yakov's grasp, taking his boot and the rose along with him. Shoving his foot in, Victor passed the rose into his mouth one more time to tie his laces. Makkachin crowded around him, trying to shove her head under his arm. He allowed her to do so, enduring her licking at his face and her awkward attempt to nose at the flower stem for a few seconds before grunting out a stop command. She listened, settling for nuzzling at his hands looking for a reassuring pat on the head.

He obliged, straightening to look first to the people who meant the most to him in the world, then to the dark pony trying to make itself less conspicuous out of what felt like an attempt at politeness. Victor once again took the rose from where he held it clenched between his teeth.

“Can you manage to carry both me and my dog?”

The pony eyed him with what might have been surprise. It was difficult for him to tell. The pony lowered its head and snorted, taking a step forward, then another, until he was even with Victor and Makkachin. Victor turned his head to the side, taking a surreptitious look underneath the pony as he crouched down to Makkachin's level. Ah. The pony nodded his head, holding still in the aftermath. Victor picked Makkachin up in his arms, the rose once more captive between his teeth. His dog squirmed, stilling at his humming when he placed her at the front of the saddle. Her tail wagged once with nerves while he took a grip on the pommel, getting one boot into the stirrup and hauling himself up. Settling down behind Makkachin, he wrapped an arm around her, keeping her close.

Yuri broke out of the freeze of incredulity that had fallen over the rest of room. Darting around the bed, he grabbed hold of Victor's leg, tugging on his trousers and scowling up at him. “Victor, you asshole! I'm going to find you and drag you back myself if I have to, do you hear me? I'm not going to leave you alone!”

Victor nodded, knowing he should have looked ridiculous with a blue rose held in his teeth. He looked like an ill equipped suitor off to woo, in some regards; in others, like a soldier off to face a battle for which he's never been prepared. He shifted his hold on Makkachin to his other arm, extending a hand for Yuri to shake. Careful enunciation allowed him to speak around the rose.

“See you later, Yura.”

Yuri hesitated, then slapped Victor's hand away. “See you soon, jackass. And you!” He rounded on the pony, staring him down. “Make sure this idiot doesn't break his neck getting to where you're going. He's fallen off horses that were standing still before.”

“When I was _drunk_.”

“It still happened.”

Georgi chimed in. “He has a point, Vitya. Just like he's right about not leaving you alone.”

Mila nodded, standing up, one hand still steadying Yakov at his shoulder. “We're not going to give up on you. Just like we wouldn't have given up on Yakov.”

“Vitya – ” Whatever else Yakov might have said was cut off as the pony moved to the door, thud-thumping his way outside into the heavy quiet of the winter storm. Victor ducked his head at the last moment to avoid clocking himself on the door, forcing Makkachin down with him. Hearing a chorus of voices at his back, pleading, he made himself look forward.

In the cold of the night air Victor was less sure about most the decisions he'd just made, but he was more sure than ever he couldn't have let Yakov be the one to face this for his sake. Not over a rose. The man practically raised him. He loved Yakov. Loved the rest, too, even prickly Yuri.

He carried the warmth of that knowledge tucked in close to his heart, right by Makkachin, as the dark pony bore them off into the white of the winter's night. Taking him to the castle of the blue roses. Taking him to an uncertain future.

Taking him to the Beast.


	2. in which yuri is confronted with someone who is not geriatric, and victor is thwarted from leaving the castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we get some limited insight into Yuri's thoughts on the current proceedings, and Victor and Yuri are both surprised at the consequence of returning the rose. Yuri's staunch denial that anything more than the return of the rose is needed is met with pointed disagreement... from the castle itself.

Yuri paced the great hall barefoot, feeling the cool stone under his paw-pads, hearing the clack of his nails against the ground with every step he took. It was off beat with the clock that ticked away on the nearby mantle, meriting a flick of his ear as he turned. He grimaced, lips pulling back from his canines. The ticking was pushing under his skin, a discordant note jangling along his frayed nerve endings. Clawed hands twitched, curling into fists at his sides before he forced them to relax, ears swiveling back and pressing against his misshapen skull. His hair was longer than his fur now, just as dark on his head as it'd always been, tied back into an impatient queue that kept it from draping around his ears and hanging in his face. He would need to hack it short again.

It was easier to focus on that then the point he felt coming closer: he return of the old man who Yuri had unintentionally dragged into this isolation, aided by the magic of this castle he couldn't escape. He berated himself, tail curling up tight against his legs, crowded under the cape he wore to obscure the shape of himself reflecting in the windows as he passed.

_Tick._

His lips pulled back from his teeth, stomach clenching. Bile rose in the back of his throat, bitter and consuming. He shouldn't have lashed out.

_Tick._

He'd been angry when that old man had so thoughtlessly snapped one of his roses off its bush, taking what Yuri had never offered. Breaking the bounds of a politeness any guest should know.

 _Tick_.

He didn't want him _here_. He hadn't wanted anyone here, but he couldn't bring himself to resent what humanity had left him unable to allow the old man and his horse to die outside his gate.

 _Tick_.

He didn't want _anyone_ here, intruding, witnessing what he was, in his space, invading his privacy. Offering one man sanctuary for the night should have been fine. Here for a night, then gone again, back to his business in the world.

_Tick._

Extended company was a different matter entirely. Yuri didn't want a reminder about his own loneliness. He didn't want a reminder of his own impossible situation.

_Tick._

His eyes slammed shut, feeling the magic that so tightly wound around the rose the old man had taken sing to him, coming home. He didn't want another man's life, but he'd asked for it, bitten out the demand. He’d not known how the magic of this place would act on his anger and a measure of his fear. Now it was impossible for him to deny it, that cord of magic that tied his awareness to the rose. It was an itch under his skin that he couldn’t scratch. Still, when the old man returned, Yuri would talk with him, find some way to form the words and reason through to a possible solution. A life for a life didn't need to be the old man's life. What about a plant in a pot? It was the middle of winter, but something would grow if they tried. Herbs, perhaps. Or what if he brought Yuri a chicken from the market, still alive? That'd meet the requirements if not the intent. Would it be enough?

He chased his own thoughts in circles, the line he paced growing shorter and shorter as the rose came closer and closer. His heart pounded loud in his chest, the blood rushing through his ears a cacophony of living sound he couldn’t escape. His mouth was dry, as was his nose; he felt woefully unprepared, on edge, both apologetic and upset.

The best of intentions didn't undo the damages they'd caused. He'd learned that five years ago. He'd been relearning that lesson ever since.

He could tell when man and pony had returned, sensing the distance dwindle until they'd arrived out front, separated from Yuri by the bulk of the wooden doors. The pony was another mystery of the castle's magic in Yuri's opinion. He'd walked into the front hall months ago in the fall and stood there, soaking wet. Yuri had attempted to ignore him at first. He'd eventually relented when the pony had calmly paced around after him for the better part of a week. He'd been the only animal in the unused stables from then on, adding a chore to the load of the unseen servants that tended to Yuri's needs.

He hated that, too, even if he'd gotten used to their quiet efficiency over the years.

The rose on the other side of the doors was a discomfort and yearning that burned in his stomach, setting his fur standing on edge. Yuri braced himself in the middle of the hall, shoulders hunched forward, ears still pressed back against his skull. He didn't want to be dealing with any of this, but there was no one around who could deal with it for him. He pulled the cloak tighter around his shoulders, reaching up and pulling the hood up, hiding his head. His muzzle was too long to hide, an impediment to the clarity of his speech at times as it was, and an annoyance when it came to dining. He briefly considered pulling out his glasses and fixing them in place.

Yuri kept himself from flinching as the door pushed inward, the chill of the winter air outside flooding in like the piercing sunlight the old man let in. He sniffed, breathing in that crispness along with the myriad of other scents: ones that made no sense, leaving him wide-eyed and open-mouthed, taking hurried steps back into the deeper shadows where the light didn't reach.

 _This is wrong. This is all wrong, all wrong._ A dog trotted inside, shaking itself off and perking up, scenting the air. Its head turned side to side, body tense, mouth dropping open as it tried to better pick up Yuri's scent. The bundled man who followed in after the dog carried the rose; Yuri could tell by the feel of it, a thrum against his senses that was leaving him dizzy. For a moment he wondered why the old man had brought back a dog of all things; if this might be the salvation Yuri was looking for. He'd take a dog over human companionship any day.

Still, the sense of something catastrophic about to happen didn't lessen as the thought occurred. He was starting to growl reflexively, a small, rumbling sound that the dog picked up on, going still. What his eyes couldn't tell him, blinded by light and registering the fuzzy form of the man who was currently closing the door, his nose and ears could say. There was no faint scent of blood, and he stepped too lightly. He _smelled_ wrong. Then he spoke.

“Hello?”

Yuri jerked his head back. This wasn’t the same man. He even _sounded_ wrong. Between the sharp spike in agitation and the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Yuri managed to force himself to speak. 

“Who are you?”

The dog whined, moving closer to the stranger, while Yuri held his ground in the shadows, his heart beating too fast in his chest. He could hear a ringing in his ears, felt himself on the brink of starting to pant. That feeling of impending catastrophe loomed taller than the stranger, filling in the space where light had been. Reaching out to Yuri and wrapping invisible fingers around his throat, digging through his fur until they found flesh.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to run. Instead, he stepped forward, nails clicking on stone, teeth bared, eyes wide. His nails bit into the softer, thinner skin of his palms, keeping him grounded. That was real. That was in his control.

“You're not the old man. Who – where did you – that rose isn't yours!”

If he chased him out now, maybe he'd be able to stop whatever was starting to happen. It was a desperate thought, the only one that thrummed through Yuri's core, beating along with his thundering heart and the pulse of the rose clutched in the stranger's hand.

He wanted to tell this man to get out, to _leave_. He tried forcing the words out of his throat, finding nothing but a strangled sound could make it past his too stiff lips and the length of his tongue. He strode forward, frightened and angry, figuring if nothing else he could bodily drag the other man out and send him on his way.

He had to protect his fragile peace. It was one of the few things in this mad world that remained within his power to control.

It had to stay that way, or else where would he be?

* * *

Victor didn't know what to expect when the pony had carted him out into the night of the winter storm. There was no sudden flare of magic, no explanations from the pony, no sudden insights. There was simply a ground-eating walk, the bob of the pony's head as he walked on, and the misleading gentleness of the storm around them.

The streets Victor was familiar with had become alien in that muffled quiet; light from windows that had seemed welcome half an hour before was now colder, dimmed. Self-doubt tried catching up to him, leaving him questioning the wisdom of his decisions, but it was simple to set aside. Wise or not, he believed he'd made the best decision he could at the time. He had every faith in the members of the troupe back with Yakov. He knew they had faith in him, too. With Makkachin cradled against his chest and the pony picking his purposeful way through the narrow streets and toward the broader avenues leading out of the city, Victor concentrated on staying in the saddle, knees tucked up high against the pony's shoulders.

The rose was still clutched between his teeth. He noticed as they turned onto the main avenue, shivering as stray snowflakes drifted down into the exposed hollow at his throat. Victor reached up, carefully easing the rose from his mouth. One of the thorns caught at his lip; he could feel the prick of pain, the small bleed that followed and filled his mouth with the coppery tang of blood. He pressed his tongue against the cut, grimacing as he tucked the rose into the front fold of his coat. The magic around the impossible flower flared for a beat of his heart, then another before it fell quiet; as if there was an aligning of pulse and purpose between the organ in his chest and this magical construct. 

He didn't like the thought, though it subsided quickly enough he had to wonder if he'd even felt any of it at all.

Victor held Makkachin close as they went, only relaxing his grip when she squirmed and whined under his grip. “Sorry, Makkachin.” She huffed and turned her head, licking at his face without a prayer of reaching it. He smiled, leaning forward to bury his face in her fur. She smelled like hearthfire and baking bread.

The pony snorted as they left the city behind, his only warning before picking up pace, Victor bouncing along until he figured out how to post with the higher stirrups. It seemed improbable that the pony could manage a canter in this snowpack, but his short, sturdy legs stretched out, eating up the distance between civilization and their destination. Victor settled back, helping Makkachin balance as they adjusted to the rolling motion of the pony. Time slowed, or else it sped by, distorted into an endless rocking motion and the falling of snow hypnotising as familiar countryside gave way to the unfamiliar. Trees both taller and thicker around, interspersed with younger saplings bowed under the weight of snow in their branches.

He heard the calls of wolves in the distance, howls cutting through the dull thud of the pony’s hooves, of his laboured breathing, of Victor’s heart beating in his chest. Yakov’s mention of the wolves who’d hunted down his caravan come to mind, but the lingering calls never came closer. They were eventually forgotten, just as the distance was, while the fresh snow piled higher and higher to either side. One white and shadowed landscape blurred into the next.

The pony finally slowed as he was pushing through chest-deep fresh powder, ears flicking forward, grunting in dissatisfaction. He pranced in place, tossing his head, then leapt forward, nearly unseating both Victor and Makkachin. For a moment Victor imagined the pony’s tidy mane growing, tendrils of black hair reaching back for Victor’s arm, coiling around his wrists. He blinked, and nothing had changed; it was only Victor holding himself and Makkachin in place, the pony surging forward, snorting with his ears pressed back in his determination.

A stone wall took form out of the trees, bisecting a line through them. It was as covered in the snow as the rest of the landscape, solid and looming, unbroken. At first the forest simply seemed to stretch onward on the other side. As the pony pressed inexorably forward, fewer and fewer trees jutted skyward from the inside of the wall; more sparse, according to some unseen landscaper’s plan. Victor found himself craning his head up, as if expecting to see his destination looming overhead. He was rewarded with little more than the wide expanse of sky overhead before it was cut off from line of sight, swallowed whole by the surrounding forest once again.

He shivered, hugging Makkachin close. The rose tucked into his coat hummed with energy as they came closer, the rightness of its return an irritant rubbing against his senses. When the geas on the flower was laid to rest, he could figure out his next step.

The pony shook his head again, stepping more easily as the sculpting of the wind and snow left the path easier to navigate next to the stone wall. They were almost upon the gate before Victor registered what he was seeing: two ornate, metal gates, sculpted into shapes he found difficult to make out until the pony was walking past. Underneath the snow and ice he could see the artistry of the thorns, woven branches and roses in various states of bloom winding around vertical bars, a metal illusion of life. One gate hung half-off its hinges, leaning back, inviting them inward. The pony took the invitation, carefully moving through the open space left by the falling gate. Victor twisted back around, squinting and trying to make out where Yakov and Philua had fought the wolves. Overcast skies illuminated nothing but the fresh snowfall, all signs of past conflict left buried to wait for spring.

Philua had deserved better. Victor faced forward, eyes flicking up, the archway of stone they were passing through close to two feet thick. He was impressed in spite of himself. Whoever the original builder had been, they’d not spared expense in ensuring the defensive wall of a castle that couldn’t keep an intact gate.

Victor snorted, earning a flick of an ear from the pony. He moved faster now, lifting his feet and trotting down the expanse of a road that couldn’t be seen. In the distance, trees grew in regular rows, testimony to a greater intelligence to the designs of the grounds; far to the left he spied what might be a hedge maze, buried under the snows. The pony knew his way, trotting purposefully along, following the curve of a hill, leading into one of the regular rows of trees stretching overhead. As the pony pushed on and under the shadows of the bare tree limbs, Victor found himself craning his head back, impressed by the natural hall they walked down. It must be beautiful in the spring and autumn, decorated in greens and golds and reds as fit the season. Even in winter, decorated in snow and shadow, Victor found the natural canopied corridor compelling. Unnerving, too. He had to physically shrug off the sensation of moving between the realm of the everyday and the magical; a ridiculous thought. Their lives were inextricably caught up in magic from the moment of their birth to the moment of their death. Probably even beyond. There was no _other_ realm to step into. No place needed to be more magical than the world they already lived in.

He smiled, laughing inwardly at his own turn of thought. That smile was still on his lips as he redirected his attention forward, looking beyond the pony’s ears and wishing, vaguely, he could stretch his legs.

Thoughts about stretching fled his mind as he caught sight of their destination. Where the avenue of trees ended, a gentle slope of snow stretched on for acres, smaller trees to either side. Framed in between the smooth expanse of snow and the shorter, bare trees stretching skyward, the stone castle rose two stories high against the white of the surrounding snows. The fresh snow clung to the rooftops and eaves, softening the steep inclines of the castle’s two towers. One stood taller than the other, five stories to the shorter tower’s three; he could see the pole jutting off its roof, bereft of a flag.

It was all he saw before the pony veered the right, avoiding the clear expanse of snow leading up to the castle. He wondered why, but had little guidance to offer when the pony brought them here in the first place. There could be dangers of etiquette or design about which Victor was simply unaware.

Makkachin squirmed, her first insistent attempt to get down. Victor pressed his lips into a line, bracing her so she could leap into the fresh snow. Her impact sent a flurry of powder into the air to the pony’s tolerant befuddlement. Shaking his head, he broke into a trot, forcing Victor to post or else end up facing the uncomfortable consequences of sitting badly in saddle. Makkachin pranced alongside them both, tail wagging, enjoying the adventure with a freer spirit than Victor allowed himself to have.

His stomach tightened, tension almost painful before he told himself to breathe. In, one-two-three. Out, one-two-three. Smile.

It helped. As the castle grew larger before them, a quiet, resting giant observing their approach, he felt almost calm. There was nothing for it except to face the Beast and deal with the situation that had come about through ill chance and magic. Making what luck he could out of a situation no one had asked for sounded like an almost appealing sort of challenge.

The pony came to a stop within metres of the stairs leading up to the imposing wooden doors, stretching almost twice as tall as Victor stood. Intricate carved panels depicted a stylized flower surrounded by geometric patterns; another horizontal band of carved wood marked the tops of the doors, over which stained glass windows cut colours into the same geometric patterns as the carved wood below. He took all this in from the pony’s back, Makkachin investigating the fresh snows in front. The only tracks Victor could see were those from the pony and his dog. The rose tucked in his coat thrummed again, an almost physical sensation setting his teeth on edge.

His stout steed turned his head to stare up at Victor, stamping one hoof against the snow with an impatient snort. Victor found himself staring back at the pony, registering a beat late he was being told to get off. He wondered how insistent that request would get if he didn’t move.

He didn’t plan to find out.

“Okay, okay, I hear you.” His smile was automatic, shifting forward and pulling one foot out of its stirrup. “I’m working on getting down, give me a moment.” His knees protested the shifting, an ache he both appreciated and hissed through, stretching his legs to either side of the pony before swinging one leg over and belly sliding out of the saddle. The pony waited, allowing Victor time to steady himself against the pony’s shoulder. “ _Ouch_. You’re wider than I expected.”

The pony’s skin shivered under Victor’s palm, starting to walk away without comment. He flicked his tail in Victor’s face as he moved off, tack and all, toward the stables to the right of the main castle. Victor didn’t know who, if anyone, would meet him there. There was no sign of anyone there any more than there was a sign of life from the main castle. This time of day, it was hard to say if there was even any light coming from the interior rooms.

Makkachin watched the pony leave, barking once in farewell before circling around to Victor’s side. She nuzzled up under his hand, seeking out affection even while he grimaced and stretched, eyes locked on the carved wooden doors.

“We’re here, Makkachin. All there is for it is to knock, I suppose.” He stood there, rubbing his thigh with his hands, breath forming little clouds on his exhalations. He sighed, smiling as he glanced back down to his dog. She wagged her tail, meeting his eyes, then looking away again, toward the ground. With a chuckle, he reached out to ruffle the hair on top of her head. “You’re right. No point in putting off the inevitable. Who knows? Maybe he’ll let me sleep before he kills me.”

Or maybe Victor could just freeze them all and no one would have to worry about this conundrum. While impossible, given his lack of preparation, it was still an amusingly macabre thought as he moved forward, swaying a little as his legs protested the return to normal use after hours and hours (was it shorter? longer?) on the pony’s broad back.

The rose sang across his senses, incessant and difficult to ignore, but no longer as sharply oppressive as it’d been back in the city. Instead there was a sense of anticipation, one that he felt himself echoing, that he even saw Makkachin responding to with her ears perked up, changing the way they fell to either side of her head.

He patted his hand against his hip, calling her to him as he strode up the steps. His hesitation was left behind in the snow with his footprints. Victor reached out and pushed on the handle of the door, cold of the metal searing his hand even as the door gave way with surprisingly little resistance. The wood complained, a quiet groan overshadowed by the sound of snow crunching underfoot, but the hinges were silent. The castle was more carefully tended than its lack of activity implied might otherwise be true.

The light behind him spilled across the stone floor, Makkachin shoving past Victor’s legs to go tramping in, snow falling in small clumps from her legs and belly hair as her nails clattered against the stone. The shadows retreated to the corners of the entrance and the far side of the entry hall; Victor squinted into the darkness as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

“Hello?”

His greeting went uncommented upon. Victor was tempted to believe there was no one around to hear him until a low sound reached his ears, a growl coming from no particular direction. He went still trying to pinpoint where it was coming from. Makkachin froze as well, lifting her head and staring off to a point in the deeper shadows of the hall. Victor’s eyes were slowly adjusting to the change in light; he could see the outline of someone standing there, form indistinct, ill-defined against the shadows.

“Who are you?”

The voice that spoke sounded agitated, hurried; Victor frowned, taking a step forward. Makkachin whined and moved closer to him, butting up against the side of his leg. He reached out to rest a hand on the poll of her head in reassurance. His other hand slipped into his coat, reaching for the rose.

He opened his mouth to speak, finding himself cut off and silenced as the man in the shadows strode forward. It was difficult to make sense of the image that greeted Victor’s eyes; the movement of a cloak and hood, a flash of white teeth, the clacking of nails that sounded like Makkachin, only Makkachin was holding her ground at his side. Black gloves extended under sleeves left uncuffed at the wrist; the black shirt itself overlaid by one in dark blue, wide sleeves ending halfway down the man’s forearm. Silver embroidery in curling vines and curved diamonds around the cuffs of the overshirt caught at the light streaming in through the stained glass overhead. All small details, registered and dismissed almost at once.

There was a flash of silver at the man’s throat, which might have been nothing more than the clasp for his cloak catching the light as he spoke, lips curling back from canines the length of half Victor’s pinky finger, exposing a line of teeth more familiar in Makkachin’s mouth than anything human. He couldn’t help how his eyes went wide, belatedly registering the narrow muzzle of the man literally snarling at him now.

 _Beast_ , his mind corrected him. _This is why Yakov called him a beast._

Victor held himself still, betraying little past the widening of his eyes for how surprising it was to see a glimpse of what this man hid in his cloak and under clothing. The narrow black muzzle of his face ended in an equally black nose; his eyes stood out as a vivid brown, framed by more jet black fur, but only just around his eyes. Where his eyebrows might have been, black fur became ticked with silver and white, forming a curving mask over both eyes meeting in a double curved arch in the middle of his forehead. The silver ticked black outlined his temples, too, following the curve of his jaw.

Those teeth. Victor was still trying to make sense of a man-sized dog standing upright and talking to him, but he knew that was wrong, knew it even as the man spoke.

“You're not the old man. Who – where did you – that rose isn't yours!”

 _A fox_ , his mind supplied. It was the tapering of the muzzle, the soft flare of fur away from the sides of his face that put Victor in mind of a fox. A fox-man demanding answers, coming closer, raising a hand to gesture past Victor toward the door.

 _Oh_ , Victor thought. _Those aren’t gloves._ The fine black fur of the Beast’s hands and fingers was soft and sleek in this light, but the nail of each finger ended in a blunt claw more familiar on a dog than on any human hand. Victor as much wanted to reach out and touch him to see if any of this was real as he wanted to step cautiously away.

Instead he spoke, lips curling up into an automatic smile: the kind he wore in public, dealing with people making demands he had no intention of submitting to, but politely listened to regardless. That he summarily ignored and dismissed those demands went without saying.

“Oh, but it was,” he said, holding up the rose between them. It was something of a peace offering, the remarkably intact head of the flower tipped toward the Beast; something of a challenge as well. _Prove me wrong._ “It was a gift for me that landed someone I care about in a difficult position. If I’d never made the request, he’d have never picked the rose. If he’d never picked the rose, there wouldn’t have been any nonsense about lives for lives.”

He bobbed his hand, dancing the rose into a dip and a sway. The sense of anticipation that’d been mounting as he climbed the stairs was at a breaking point, leaving him almost breathless. He continued speaking in spite of the sensation.

“There wouldn’t have been any need for spells.” His voice was softer, gaze direct, blue eyes searching out a glimpse of the Beast’s under his hood. They made eye contact for a brief moment, silence tense between them. Then the Beast’s eyes dropped away, focusing on the rose. He reached out, suddenly snatching the rose away from Victor, fingers curled protectively around its stem and twitching tighter as the thorns from the rose pricked the soft flesh of his hand.

The Beast drew in a hissed breath, blood beading at what should have been an inconsequential nick; and the magic that had been waiting, pooling around the both of them, crested and swept them away.

Or nearly tried, in Victor’s opinion; the strength of the spell’s completion caught Victor, Makkachin, the Beast, and the blue rose in the center of a miniature windstorm. It was strong enough to pull the hood off the Beast’s head, revealing his massive ears and the messy queue of his hair whipped up by the magical wind. Victor’s own hair blew in his eyes, scarf whipping around until it was in danger of flying off his neck altogether. He grabbed for the stray edge before he lost it completely, his other hand firmly buried in the ruff of fur around Makkachin’s neck. He found himself with his scarf caught and the lower stem of the rose in his hand, right under where the Beast had his own hold.

As abruptly as the magical windstorm had struck, it ended, leaving the two of them in a sudden, ringing silence. The rose that had been in their hands tangled now between them, new roots wound over hands and between fingers. Bright green leaves jutted out in every direction, leading up to a single, tightly wound bud. The sudden loss of the brilliant blue was as startling as the sudden silence.

Which Victor was the first to break. 

“Oh,” he said, breathing out in a soft gasp of air. “That… isn’t what I expected.” Based on the wide-eyed look on the other man’s furred face, it hadn’t been what he’d expected either. Victor let go of the rose, or made an attempt, but it was difficult to extract his hand and the end of his scarf from the mess of roots now clinging to him. The Beast held himself still, his ears swiveling forward, one cocked to listen as Victor spoke.

He cleared his throat as Victor’s eyes lingered a moment too long on his ears, black-furred and coming to two rounded, triangular points on his head. Victor restrained the inappropriate desire to reach out and touch them, to see if the fur there was as velvet-soft as it seemed. It was the same urge he had with puppies, he reasoned, only puppies didn’t stand around his height (even taller) and look at him with too-intelligent, focused eyes.

“Don’t move,” the Beast said, reaching up with his other hand and carefully threading dark fingers and dark claws through the tangle of white roots. “You’ll hurt it if you pull away like that.”

Ears turning back, the Beast tucked his chin in, the point of his muzzle angled down toward the rose and its mass of roots and leaves. He ignored Victor, concentrating on the gentle loosening of the roots from around Victor’s fingers. His movements were deft and mesmerising in their own way, the Beast’s own magic a gentle, coaxing warmth that spilled over from his fingertips. The rose responded, roots relaxing and hanging down straight, releasing Victor’s hand and wrist. His scarf took a moment longer to come free.

“Amazing,” he said under his breath, hand still held out toward the flower. His eyes searched for the Beast’s. “Do you work with earth or water?”

The Beast drew the rose closer to his chest, taking a step back. His lips pulled back off his canines, showing them up to his gums, ears turned back and away. “What?”

Victor took a step forward without thinking about it, retaining their original distance. Makkachin shook herself out by his side, sneezing and pawing at her muzzle. It was enough to distract Victor into looking down, missing the brief panic that flitted across the Beast’s vulpine features. “Magic. Do you work with earth or water magic?”

“I, water, it’s water, how did you…”

Victor looked between the rose and the Beast, quirking up his eyebrows. _You have to ask?_

“... I didn’t _do_ anything.”

“You managed to make the roots let go. That takes finesse.”

The other man seemed to be at a loss of what to make of that, squinting his eyes and breathing out through his nose harsh enough to be heard. He took another step backward, splaying his feet so he stood sturdy on the stone floor, ears canted back. Makkachin was walking closer, sniffing avidly at their new companion; it was the only sign of the Beast softening, when he allowed Makkachin to come close enough to nose at his cloak. He shrugged even her off when she tried getting her head _inside_ , shaking his head and making an abortive gesture toward the castle doors.

“Enough. Enough! This is enough, it has to be. A life for life.” He hefted up the rose, indicating its roots. “What harm’s been done has been paid in full. You can leave.” He turned to the side, cloak trying to swirl around with him. It got caught up on Makkachin, who danced to the side with a playful bark and bit at the material, missing by a wide margin. The clatter of her claws along with the Beast’s made for an unlikely cacophony echoing through the hall like forgotten laughter. Victor stifled a sound of amusement behind his hand, turning it into a cough as the Beast glared his way.

“I said you can leave!”

Victor shook his head, taking pity on his erstwhile host, clucking his tongue for Makkachin to come. She left off on prancing around the Beast with a parting bark and wag of her tail, springing along toward Victor. Her feet still left damp impressions from the snow continuing to melt out of her fur. “Good girl.” He looked up, holding his hands up in an apologetic, open palmed shrug. “I heard, and I’m happy to go, but I’m not sure how far we are from the city. May I borrow your pony again?”

The Beast grimaced, wrinkling his nose like he’d scented something unpleasant. “He does as he likes,” he admitted after a moment, one ear swiveling forward as he considered possibilities. “You can ask.”

Victor blinked, caught off guard. “Ask?”

His unlikely host kept walking, leaving Victor standing in the front hall holding on to his scarf. He’d slipped back into the shadows before Victor thought to go after him. “Ask the pony.” Victor exchanged a glance with Makkachin. She tossed her head, dancing sideways and forward to knock against his legs, then bound off again. While she explored the hall, Victor rearranged his scarf around his neck. There was little for it but to take the Beast at his word and see about heading back home. Walking would be a long and tedious business; if it came down to that, and the pony refused to carry Victor and Makkachin home, he’d need to ask for supplies. A water flask at least; he might be able to warm snow to drink, but it stole precious heat from him in the process. Being freed from this magical geas shouldn’t lead to him freezing for his folly in trying to get back home too soon.

All that was for after talking with the pony. Victor was still grappling with the surreal nature of that statement as he reached out and pulled on the door handle tugging inward. The door stayed closed. He looked up, frowning, but there was no evidence of a lock on this side having latched after Victor entered with his dog. He tried again, bracing himself as he pulled.

The wood creaked without budging. He glanced over his shoulder, still frowning, finding no one there. Makkachin nosed at a woven rug on the stone toward the right, close to an unlit hearth. 

He gritted his teeth, squaring off against the door. Wrapping his hands around the handle, Victor planted one foot on the opposing door. The added leverage might have made some difference, but as he strained backward, using his weight to help pull on the door, he was greeted with nothing more than a louder _creak_ as the carved door stood unyielding.

“Okay,” he said as he dropped his foot away from the door. He straightened up, adjusting the lapels of his coat and straightening the fall of his scarf. One hand raked through his bangs, pushing them off his face as he regarded the beautifully carved door. “The front doors aren’t working. I’ll find one of the other doorways. The kitchens? Or wherever goes out into the gardens.”

It was a _castle_. A large castle on an estate. Surely there were countless doors leading outside; if not that, then some number of windows might be able to be moved. Depending on how modern the window settings were. Still, he spied electric wall lights along the corridor, leading off into the shadows. The Beast might not be using them (or the system might not be able to handle the magical fluctuations in the region), but it indicated some attempts at modernization.

Victor kept that in mind as he called Makkachin over, giving her a rigorous rubdown with his hands once she came to his side. It was calming for him in a way, centering on the stubborn reality of his dog and her relentless affection. The puzzle of the Beast and his magic and whatever the hell had happened with the rose could wait. His first matter of business was getting back outside and finding the stables.

 _No_ , he corrected himself. His business was done here, whatever that business had been. _A life for a life._ The Beast seemed to believe he’d repaid that debt on Yakov’s behalf. Victor wasn’t inclined to look that gift horse in the mouth. An amusing thought when he was off to discuss his travel arrangements with a pony.

If he could find his way out to the stables.

He turned, regarding his surroundings. The entry hall widened where it ran perpendicular into a hall running both directions; the left hall stretching into shadows and sporadic light toward the end, where the hall truncated in a window peering out into the gentled snowstorm. He hesitated, scanning to his right, then turned on heel and marched firmly onward in that direction. The doors here were closer, the hall better lit from the scattered reflections of light from the entry. 

The first door he reached refused to budge under his hand. He jiggled the handle, biting back another frown. What in the world? He couldn’t sense any particular enchantment at work; the whole of the castle was steeped in magic, but even then, the little earmarks of a smaller sealing spell were absent. The door simply didn’t _want_ to move.

“Guess it isn’t this way.” He let go of the handle and stepped back, eyeing the door once more before heading further down the hall. There were only so many doors here, but each one refused to open. Not until he retraced his steps to head down the leftmost hall did he find any that would turn under his hand, Victor smiling with a grim sort of determined victory as he stepped into one of the most ornate bathrooms he’d seen in his life. Here a witchlight flared into existence overhead as he entered, highlighting the silver veining on the marble tile and walls, sweeping back to a simple toilet and over-generous sink.

The window he found was too small for anything other than a child to crawl through even if it had opened. Frosted glass looked out into an inner courtyard, judging on the walls he saw further beyond.

This was getting ridiculous. Coaxing Makkachin out of the bathroom, he closed that door politely behind himself before continuing to try every door he came upon. Only two others opened: one to a breakfast room of sorts, lined with windows that invited in the light around a small round table, suited for no more than three or four. A modest breakfast spread sat out on the sideboard: a bowl of rice, two uncooked eggs, thick sliced bread, butter, a deep red jam, a pot of tea. The touch of his hand to the teapot showed it had been cooling for some time, closer to lukewarm now. He wondered if he’d interrupted the Beast’s breakfast, ignoring the pang of hunger in his own stomach.

In a place like this, every action had a consequence. He didn’t want to invite unforeseen ones on when he had a chance of simply walking away now.

If the damn castle would let him.

Movement from the corner of his eye had him spinning around to sweep Makkachin up in his arms, laughing as he scolded her for attempting to sneak one of the slices of bread off the sideboard. “ _No_ , Makkachin, leave the bread where it is, this isn’t for us.” He hoped it was. He hoped it wasn’t. There were unfortunate assumptions either way.

Much the same, he had to wonder: had the Beast prepared all of this himself? Up to this moment Victor hadn’t seen any indication of servants moving through the castle. Not even a whisper of movement from any living soul other than himself and Makkachin. He shivered, wondering if they were all staying in the parts of the castle he simply couldn’t reach.

No matter. Carrying Makkachin out of the breakfast room, he set her down again and closed the door firmly behind them, setting out to explore the few doors he had yet to try. It was among those that he found the last to give under his hand. When Victor stepped through the door, he stopped abruptly across the threshold.

Even the weak sunlight from outside brought the beauty of the room to life. Gilded gold frescoes lined the walls on the far side of the room; gilded golden floors danced in the light streaming in through the myriad of windows between the frescoes. The hearth here burned with a lovely banked fire, two lounging chairs and a sitting couch arranged in a u-shape around the woven red rug before it. It was even more opulent than the ridiculous bathroom, and more compelling, drawing Victor further inside on the promise of warmth. It was as if the cold he’d been feeling since the night before made itself known in a rush, leaving him shivering in the sudden burst of awareness.

Stepping inside, every click of his heels on the floor echoed across the open expanse, oddly muted. Makkachin’s own clattering of nails was a welcome break to the silence of crackling fire and little else. There was so much silence here, Victor wasn’t sure what to make of it all.

So he didn’t think about it. He kept moving, pulling his coat more tightly around himself as he started for the windows. None of the ones extending close to the floor were doors in and of themselves, but some must open, for airflow if nothing else. He went from window to window, jiggling the latches, managing to get one window open for a breath of chill air. The hinges caught and refused to budge any further, no matter how much of his weight he threw against the window. Fearing the cost of breaking any of the collection of smaller panes the windows were made out of, he relented, pulling it closed again with a whining screech so he could relatch it. He turned around, back to the chill window panes, breathing out in a sigh.

He hadn’t noticed the mirrors lining the opposite wall until then. Victor regarded the reflection of himself slumped in temporary defeat with a wry smile, lifting a hand to shove his bangs back off his face. Makkachin had taken to curling up by the fire some fifteen minutes into Victor’s attempt to abscond out the windows, dozing easily in front of the warmth of the fire.

“Don’t give me that look,” he said, canting his head to the side and regarding himself across the room. “You know I tried. Besides…” He straightened, letting his hand drop away from his head. “It’s probably wiser to ask for supplies before I try hiking back into the city. I doubt the pony’s going to be any more willing to work with me than the castle is.”

His dry look was cast around the room to a lack of response or reaction beyond the crack of a log in the fireplace. It was enough to draw his attention, spying his sleeping dog. He breathed out in a soft laugh. Between the two of them, she might well have been the wiser creature.

“Makkachin.” He walked closer, moving through the room as quietly as he could. At the edge of the rug he hesitated, calling her name again. “Makkachin, girl.”

She thumped her tail once against the rug, keeping her eyes closed. She was old enough to enjoy her rest as much as her play; a tired and a sweet image of brown, warm canine curled up before a fire in a room that reflected light in an endless array of sparkling gold. It should have been distracting, Victor mused, bending down to pull off his boots, but it was more like watching light sparkle across ripples in a reflection pool. Inviting and mesmerising, even as silvered fish flitted by in the deeper waters.

Carrying his boots with him across the carpet, Victor marveled at the plush feeling of the woven material under his stockinged feet. It was a different sort of inviting, one that had led to Makkachin curling up and being reluctant to stir out of her half-slumber. The urge to join her was overwhelming. He found himself yawning hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. Surely a nap wouldn’t be a bad idea? He could hardly be faulted for accepting the warmth of a fire burning far before he arrived.

He set his boots down, ignoring the niggling sense of guilt that accompanied the snow he knew still clung to their tread. He was barely a guest here. Victor shrugged out of his overcoat, folding it up before kneeling next to Makkachin. She chuffed, tail thumping against the rug once more, grateful her alpha was paying attention to the important needs of the moment. A good warm spot on a good plush rug and a good bit of rest before they tackled whatever came next.

“You’re the smartest one here, aren’t you?” he said, bundled coat set to the side. He stroked his hand over her head and down her side, feeling himself center as he focused on what he could do. Rest now and gather strength. Wait for the Beast and request supplies to get him through back to town. If he wanted Victor gone as badly as Victor wanted to leave, it shouldn’t prove to be difficult.

Plan in mind, he snuggled up to his dog’s back, throwing an arm over her shoulders and pulling her close. Victor rested his forehead against her head, breathing in her familiar scent. Her steady breathing and the warmth radiating from the fire made quick work of what an exhausting night and long, hard ride had already visited on Victor. No sooner had his eyes closed than he found himself falling asleep, past even where dreams or his overactive thoughts could reach him. In the quiet that followed, nothing in the room seemed to move but the fire and the steady up and down of man and dog as they breathed.

There was no one awake to see how the quilt appeared from thin air, held up by unseen hands. No one to witness when feet left shallow impressions against the rug, padding closer to the sleepers. No one around to watch as the quilt was settled carefully over Victor, tucked in close, draped gently over Makkachin as well. No one listening when a voice more air than substance whispered, “Please stay.”

No one there at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have chapter two! I'm aiming for regular updates about every week to week and a half from here on forward; this was more of a two-for-one at the start. This takes care of most the initial set-up for getting to the castle! Now the question is how two adult men handle being shepherded by a castle when neither of them are exactly keen on their present circumstances.
> 
> Thank you, and see you next chapter!


	3. in which yuri almost gets breakfast and victor makes a decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What in the world are you still doing here? Did that old man leave you behind? A sweet dog like you?”
> 
> Makkachin had nothing to say, tongue lolling out as she panted and danced her hind paws around, straining forward to keep licking at Yuri. Victor did not find himself in the same predicament. Resting his empty teacup on his knee, he aimed an incredulous, mock-hurt look at his host. Of all the conversational lead-ins he’d been reviewing in his mind, being called _old_ had somehow never factored in.
> 
> “Old?” Irked by the casual dismissal, Victor smiled all the brighter. “Wow, I know I’m close to thirty, but _old_ … Makkachin, see how our host is a cruel, cruel, apparently _young_ man.”

He didn't know how much time had passed before he woke, the light dancing through the golden-flecked room with the same cheerful ease as earlier. These rooms had to be southern-facing to explain the amount of light they were getting. Victor pushed himself up, noting his dog's absence. The blanket was an odd, unexpected detail, fallen down and gathered in his lap. He slid his hands under the quilt, lifting it to examine the pattern. Geometric shapes similar to snowflakes.

He smiled for a moment, shaking his head and wondering when the Beast had been by to tuck him in. Or if he'd finally met one of the absentee servants. Both were strange thoughts he nudged to the back of his mind as he stood, draping the quilt over his arm. He was folding it out of long habit as he called out for Makkachin. She wasn't in immediate sight, and he knew she'd have to go out to do her business soon. If the castle could be bothered to let them both outside.

Scratching at the panels of one of the full length windows drew his attention. Makkachin stood with snow dusting her fur once more, tail wagging furiously, tongue lolling out of her mouth. She lifted her paw to the window again, only to step back, expectant. Victor shook his head, striding toward her, wondering when the hell she'd gotten out. Wondering moreover how the hell she'd managed it after he'd been thwarted not more than a few hours earlier. "Makkachin, you silly girl, how'd you get out there?" He breathed out in a huff of air, a laugh carrying through the exhalation. "Can you sneak me out the same way?"

To his surprise, Makkachin sat down and stared at the window expectantly. Victor felt the gentle brush of magic against his senses, a small fluctuation in the scheme of things. The full-length window Makkachin sat by creaked open barely wide enough for the enthused poodle to squirm her way through. He bolted forward, meeting Makkachin as she leapt up and left snowy, wet footprints on his front. Victor barely managed to swing the quilt out of the way, startled into laughter at his dog's familiar antics, but catching her by one paw and looking past her to the window.

The now _closed_ window.

"Amazing. Blatant and obvious favouritism. You should feel ashamed." He had no idea why the Beast would be doing any of this; it didn't feel quite right, like an echo of the magic that had hit full force when they'd both been holding the rose. There was binding in that magic and, unlike his host, Victor didn't expect it was simple to walk away.

The delay didn't appear to have done Victor any favours. He'd have expected to feel less tired after resting and, in truth, he was less fatigued than earlier. He had a headache, a constant sort of throb behind his eyes, that had only seemed to get worse. Makkachin brushed against his legs before cavorting across the room, heading for the door with unerring precision. She wanted to be up and exploring, but she refused to leave without Victor. A courtesy that had not extended to her taking a proper potty time out on the castle grounds.

Standing by the door, she wagged the plume of her tail, looking back to Victor, expectant. 

"You're a terrible influence," he said, setting the folded quilt down on the unused couch. He had to circle back around to find his boots, taking them to the foot of a lounging sofa in order to pull them back on his feet. Makkachin danced next to the door, her paws patting on the floor in a quick tempo before she whuffed her own encouragement to Victor. "I'm coming, I'm coming. How is any of this fair? You've gotten out already today, I've been cooped up in here."

Makkachin had no answers, only affection and energy to spare. When Victor opened the door, she leaped up to lick at his face, landing back on all fours and dashing through. Her energy was infectious to a degree, Victor stepping more lightly than he'd been treading around earlier as he moved into the connecting hall. Light didn't spill into the area from any of the closed doors; time had passed, but nothing else had opened to Victor and Makkachin's curiosity. Neither had the front hall doors, he learned, once he'd made the trek back to them. An experimental pull on the handles resulted in the same creaking and groaning as earlier, but no budging. This was still a false exit.

He sighed, stomach making its own complaints known as he regarded his situation. Sleep hadn't done him any worse, even if he didn't feel particularly better. He was much warmer now, and his dog was appeased. He hadn't found any openings to a kitchen before, but there had been food laid out in the breakfast room. Or what he presumed was the breakfast room; castles were supposed to have rooms upon rooms of every sort. One devoted arbitrarily to breaking one's fast in the morning sounded logical, in an over-the-top way.

Victor turned back that direction after jostling a few more doorknobs, meeting with the same lack of success as before. HIs host was likely to show up to eat at some point. Or to have eaten already, depending on how long Victor had been asleep and if his host had even been the one tucking him under that quilt. He certainly hadn’t been in the room in easy line of sight when he curled up to nap with Makkachin.

Poking his head into the breakfast room, he found the scene hadn’t changed since his initial look around. From all appearances, the Beast hadn’t even been by yet. There were still two eggs, the rice, the bread, the cup for tea — Victor pulled himself up short, Makkachin brushing past to give another hopeful sniff around the room. He clearly remembered one cup being laid out for tea before, complete with saucer and small container for sugar and milk on the table. Only now, just as clearly, there were _two_.

“It’s kind of you to think to include me,” he said, furrowed brow smoothing out as he made himself smile, “Enough so that I’d really love to thank you face to face, if that’s not too much to ask.”

Silence greeted his request. Silence and Makkachin attempting to sneak bread off the sideboard again, unrepentant and unapologetic in her bottomless-stomach ways. He considered marching them both back out into the hall, but the pangs in his stomach and the whine from his dog made him reconsider. For now he was still a guest. The Beast didn’t necessarily want him around, but it wasn’t a lack of effort on Victor’s part to leave that left him stranded for the moment. He still had to talk to his erstwhile host in order to figure out the means of allowing Victor to leave, or if it was as possible as the Beast had presumed.

In the meantime, why _not_ allow Makkachin her indulgence? Victor could use a good cup of tea himself. If the Beast was going to begrudge them that much, Victor figured he’d both underestimated half of what he was reading from the other man in their brief, tumultuous interaction earlier, and that he was being set up for failure from the start.

“You win, Makkachin. One piece only until we find you something better.” Selecting a slice of bread, he settled it on the saucer, breaking it into smaller pieces. When he set that on the ground by the table, Makkachin fell to with a wag of her tail and slurping, gobbling enthusiasm. Very little of what she did was unenthusiastic, he supposed, but it was never less fascinating to watch in action.

It turned out one of the pitchers on the sideboard was cool water. He liberated the bowl holding the eggs and left them nestled in a linen napkin, filling the bowl with water for Makkachin. She licked his hand when he set it down next to her demolished bread plate, patting her shoulder before turning back to making tea.

Loose leaf tea fit in a sieve for the small pot of concentrated tea kept on top of the warm water; Victor poured out half a cup, then topped it off with hot water, diluting the tea. He poured milk from the serving jug, watching the swirl of lighter brown blossom beneath the surface. It was familiar, unlike little else about this situation; carrying his cup with him, he pulled out a chair at the table, angling himself to see both the door to the room and look out the windows over the winter landscape beyond. The sun had crept out at some point while he was resting, turning the snow and ice into a glittering landscape, shadows stretching in blues and browns and blacks around trees and hollows better hidden from the snow’s touch. He settled back, prepared to wait, sipping at his tea and studying the quiet of the world currently out of reach.

* * *

Yuri had left the stranger standing in the front entranceway, stalking off with the rose and its mass of roots cradled in his hands. He didn’t look back, expecting the man would be intelligent enough to see himself out; there was no reason he’d stay, and no reason for Yuri to ask him to linger. He didn’t want the interruption. He didn’t want to have to deal with the implications or the pressure.

He was fine. This whole situation was fine. Yuri was _used_ to living like this now. He was used to the solitude, and most days, it wasn’t even so bad. He missed having company and people to talk to, which accounted for his habits with his flowers, but being on his own was easier than chancing failing to break the curse held over him. It seemed beyond impossible to find someone who could love him, looking past his exterior, his flaws, his personality… 

He shook his head, shifting the roots to one hand as he opened the door leading out to the greenhouses. He could already feel himself starting to relax, walking into the familiar warmth and humidity of his enclosed winter gardens. Roses were a favourite project of his, from deep reds to pale pinks to sunny yellows, and of course, sprawled in carefully trimmed bushes, the brilliant azure blue. It’d taken him three years to find a suitable mix of dye the white roses would take to, using his magic to coax them into drinking deeply, encouraging the spread of blue through the intricate network of veins throughout the stem and the petals of the flowers. He felt a deep sense of satisfaction and affection when he gazed at his efforts, protected against winter railing on outside.

He didn’t often have plantings to bring in, not like the rose in his hands now. When was the last time? Three summers ago? Back when he’d transplanted several wild roses he’d found in the woods. Most of them had thrived in his care, their blossoms more delicate than the ones he’d teased out of the tangle of rosebushes from the neglected castle gardens. By now it was his driving passion, or at least the way he spent most of his time in the castle. He’d already tried cooking, finding himself passingly pleased with some of his results, but ultimately disinclined to cook for just himself. 

He made his way toward on his garden bench and the clay pots stacked there; part of a project from two summers before. Yuri had taken it on himself to figure out how to rig up an outdoor kiln between referencing books in the library and crystal recordings. He’d wanted more pots to work with in the greenhouse and hadn’t figured out a way of asking his unseen attendants to help find what he needed. He’d gone through half a dozen firings to finally get it right. Even the flawed pots from those earlier uses of the outdoor kiln served a purpose, sporting an array of cooking herbs he’d started cultivating back when he was actively cooking. 

He dragged one pot closer, carefully settling the rose and its roots inside to keep it propped upright. Catching up another pot, he brushed out the dust and headed for his supply of finished compost and potting soil. 

Yuri worked quietly, his thoughts chasing each other around in circles. What had happened in the entryway? In all his years working with his roses, none of them had ever carried the weight of any spell, let alone so drastically _changed_ under magical influence. It was unsettling even as it was exciting; potting the rose with careful hands, Yuri couldn’t keep himself from smiling. The rose was so wonderfully alive for all it had closed up tight, its singular bud waving gently as he tamped down soil around its stalk. He fancied he could hear it singing its wordless gratitude, leaves whispering as he sprinkled a touch of water over its soil.

He carried the potted rose to one of his leveled racks facing south, where plenty of direct light would encourage it to grow. The whole of the greenhouse was built in such a way that most of it was well-bathed in light, leaving only a few sections partially shaded, and one almost always in the shadows. He’d learned which plants thrived where through trial and error and careful study of the gardening books he’d found in the library that first year, when he’d driven himself mad from lack of companionship, walking the castle’s sprawling estate day after day. 

It’d been the prospect of honey that had first turned his attention toward the overgrown gardens, following the industrious buzz of bees pollinating the overgrowth back to their neglected hives. The prospect of actually _tending_ to a beehive had been daunting at first, but the challenge itself was what drove Yuri onward. Tending to the bees had extended to tending to the gardens while the wildflower fields on the estate tended themselves. He’d found it therapeutic, cultivating beauty when he felt like he had so little reflected in himself. Not with the fur that had erupted out of his skin, the malforming of his jaw, the elongation of his nose, his oversized, overly-sensitive ears. Not with the further injustice that even like he was now, he still needed glasses. He could have at least had _that_ perk, but while his other senses improved, his vision had gotten _worse_. Colours weren’t as varied, though they were vibrant; shadows could fool his eyes in ways they never used to. He’d become monstrous, but the bees didn’t notice, and the flowers sang their songs regardless, and neither provided expectations for him to fail to live up to. It was nice. 

The greenhouse was part of his sanctuary from the world. One that’d now been breached. He fiddled with the potted rose, turning it this way, then back the other way, dissatisfied with how it faced the light. He had to admit to himself it was an excuse. He kept turning the pot because he didn’t want to follow his thoughts in their spirals back toward the tightness in his chest making it hard to breathe.

_You will be stuck like this until you understand love and are loved in return._ Something like that, at least. He heard renditions of it in his dreams as often as his nightmares. Feeling like he was slowly forgetting the faces of his parents, his elder sister. Forgetting the sound of their voices, the way they moved. Forgetting even who he was, underneath the fur.

He was panting as if overheated, but he knew that wasn’t it. Yuri stepped back out of the direct light and moved through his greenhouse, pulling at the frayed ends of his nerves, tucking them back around him. He’d dared to hope, and that hope had been frightening. How would he convince anyone to love him? To fall _in_ love with him? That wasn’t how it worked. People weren’t convinced because of a wish or a whim or a particularly well worded pleading. Yuri couldn’t even manage a decent conversation anymore, or so he felt, let alone a clear statement of intent. He glared down at the dirt on his paws, both human and yet not. Those elongated fingers belonged to no fox in existence, but the pads on his fingertips, the thickening of skin on the heel of his hand, his long, blunted nails were all closer to fox than man. It was a small consolation that he still bled red, he supposed: not a long-lived consolation. Foxes bled red as well. It would only make sense that a fox-monster’s blood would look the same.

He shook his head as he closed the greenhouse door behind him, tramping to the back of the house and slipping inside. He could feel his unease mixing with hunger, leaving him irritated with just about everything now that he’d left the sanctuary of the greenhouse. Irritated with the day, irritated with the magic that had transformed the rose, irritated with the stranger who’d walked right into his life, then been ordered back out again. Angry at himself for not taking the chance. For panicking and accepting defeat without ever having tried to see if he could maybe, just maybe…

Yuri stamped his feet to shake the snow off them, heading for the nearby washroom to take care of his hands. Paws. _Hands._ He might be a monster, but he didn’t have to think of himself as one. He did most the time anyway, but there was _humanity_ left in him still. Awkward, stilted humanity. He clung to that when everything else was sliding past, a tinny whine in his ears. Shaking his head, he ignored the witchlight as it flared into brilliant existence, turning knobs without care for hot or cool. He scrubbed the dirt off his fur, cleaning the shallow cut on his hand and probing at it, checking for a thorn. It bled clean, tapering off as he blotted his damp hands after, carrying the hand towel with him on his way to the breakfast room.

Later he would blame his preoccupied thoughts for keeping him distracted from the obvious signs of his stranger’s continued presence. The dog alone wasn’t subtle, her scent like that of a would-be friend, homey and touched with smoke. Later, he might even credit his lack of awareness of Victor as due to Makkachin’s enthusiastic greeting as soon as Yuri walked through the door, stepping out of the hall and into the bright, sunny room. In the moment he was caught by surprise, eyes widening as Makkachin bowled into him, leaping up and sniffing with all her might. The handtowel fell to the ground while Yuri caught Makkachin’s forepaws in his hands like an overeager dance partner, stumbling in the moment before the music took control. They stared at each other, beast and dog, until Yuri’s ears swiveled forward and he remembered to stop baring his teeth, sniffing back and feeling his own tail twitch in a response to Makkachin’s happy wagging.

“Hello, you,” he said, earning a lick of the fur on his arm. With his sleeves rolled back from his potting efforts, Makkachin was able to leave a line of slobbery fur sticking up and clumped together the length of his forearm. Yuri laughed in spite of himself, rocking back as Makkachin walked forward. He lifted her paws and shook his head, ears perked forward, tail giving a second, definite twitch. “What in the world are you still doing here? Did that old man leave you behind? A sweet dog like you?”

Makkachin had nothing to say, tongue lolling out as she panted and danced her hind paws around, straining forward to keep licking at Yuri. Victor did not find himself in the same predicament. Resting his empty teacup on his knee, he aimed an incredulous, mock-hurt look at his host. Of all the conversational lead-ins he’d been reviewing in his mind, being called _old_ had somehow never factored in.

“Old?” Irked by the casual dismissal, Victor smiled all the brighter. “Wow, I know I’m close to thirty, but _old_ … Makkachin, see how our host is a cruel, cruel, apparently _young_ man.” 

Yuri froze, hands reflexively tightening around Makkachin’s paws. He let go, the dog dropping back down to all four feet and shaking herself off. She didn’t understand his sudden change in posture, why he was going stiff and on guard, poised for fight or flight. Yuri barely understood the impulse himself, despite having lived with it for most his remembered life.

Victor was a sight even for his gently blurred vision. A shock of lighter hair, silver, left him haloed in gold, backlit by the light reflected through the windows. His expression was lost to Yuri’s gaze, hidden in the shadows caused by the late morning light, but even so, he was breathtakingly beautiful. The sound of his voice, the sliding fall of his hair; the way he lounged in one of Yuri’s chairs like he owned it, limbs a graceful sprawl. Old wasn’t the word Yuri wanted at all. Old wasn’t even close.

That alone was more than he wanted to handle. Overwhelmed, Yuri felt cold break over him, setting his fur standing on edge, again bringing him close to panting. Breathing felt too difficult to manage, his tongue thick and uncooperative for the second time that morning. He finally managed to bite out a response in spite of himself, holding his hands up like he could stop Victor, or stop this reality, simply with a gesture. “Why are you still here?!”

He sounded more surprised than angry. Victor lifted his empty cup, tipping it toward the Beast. Makkachin had dropped away and padded over to him, nudging at his leg and sniffing hopefully for food. Food, which was a better focus than trying to figure out what the confusion of human and animal body language coming from the Beast meant.

_I really need something other than Beast to call him_. 

“I tried leaving, but the castle was reluctant to let me outside. You wouldn’t have happened to enchanted the doors?”

“Did I what?” Yuri stared at him in confusion, one ear flicking back, the other canting forward, following the sound of Victor’s voice. It was all very distracting.

“Didn’t think so,” he said, sighing. He set the tea cup down on the table, rising to his feet in a smooth motion. “Where’ve you been?”

Yuri hunched his shoulders, tucking in his chin. “It’s not your business.”

“Maybe not, but if the castle wasn’t keeping you bundled up inside too, then at least we’ll know it’s only focusing on what _I_ do.” He bit back a sigh, tapping his finger on the lip of his teacup. “Regardless of what you may believe about the spell on that rose, I don’t think it’s done with us yet.”

Yuri shook his head, this time stepping forward instead of back. The table was a barrier between them, but more than that, he didn’t want to believe what he was hearing. “No, _no_ , it has to be. I didn’t want, I didn’t _mean_ —”

“You didn’t mean for any of this to happen.” Victor rounded the table, patched coat open, scarf draped over his neck. The worst of it was he believed what he was hearing, even as he _believed_ he was also correct. Whatever magic the Beast had set in motion had swiftly moved beyond his control. The whole of the castle felt practically steeped in magic; anything could be a catalyst for a much larger spellcasting. 

“Who knows? Earlier may have been a temporary setback.” His smile had lost most of its edge by the time he stopped again, within reaching distance of the Beast. “Either way, this works out for both of us. In case your pony doesn’t want to take me back to the city, I wanted to ask for supplies to help see myself and Makkachin safely on our way.” He ended the statement with a questioning uplilt of his voice, inviting a response from the Beast.

Yuri found himself starting to nod. It made sense, just like it made sense that there could have been an unforeseen setback, maybe while Yuri secured the rose in soil. Moreover, the reminder that he’d been telling the stranger to head back out into this winter landscape with nothing but the clothes on his back was starting to register. It was practically a death sentence.

Victor held out his hand to Yuri as soon as he caught sight of him nodding. His smile was brighter, glad to be on course for getting home safely, if he was getting home at all. It couldn’t hurt to have the master of the castle on his side.

“Introductions didn’t go so well earlier. Mind if I start us over?” He didn’t wait for confirmation. “I’m Victor Yakovlevich Nikiforov.”

Yuri stared at his outstretched hand, brain trying to catch up with the action. His mouth fell open again, ears both canted back. “What?”

Victor wiggled his fingers, keeping his hand outstretched. “Just Victor’s fine.”

“Victor.”

He smiled. “Victor.” He nodded his head to the side, indicating his dog. “Makkachin.” Then he gestured with a thrust of his chin to Yuri. “And…?”

Yuri glanced away, then back to Victor’s hand, then to Victor’s face. The last was a mistake: immediately his eyes fell back to Victor’s hand, wary of some repeat from earlier. There was a subtle _pressure_ building around them, he could sense that, but it was nothing compared to earlier that morning with the rose.

“I…”

“I?” Victor tipped his head to the side, turning the parroting into a question. “I… am free to make one up? At this rate, I’m going to end up calling you Fuzzy.”

Yuri jerked his head back, more than vaguely offended. “ _Fuzzy._ ”

Victor gave him a solemn nod. “Or Furface. Flufftail is another possibility —”

He had no idea if Victor was serious, but Yuri wanted him to stop. He didn’t like feeling mocked, and while part of him recognised he was being rude by refusing to respond to a normal social interaction in the first place, they weren’t close, they weren’t _friends_ , and yet here some beautiful specimen of humanity was threatening to call him _Fuzzy_. There was no room in his mind for this to be anything other than a mockery. 

Yuri slammed his hand into Victor’s, grip almost painfully tight. _Look at the big fuzzy monster performing “shake” on command._ Yuri’s mental tone was bitter, and he clung to that irritation. It was so much easier than dealing with the rest of the unsettled feelings roiling through him, and so much more convenient to hide behind when he wanted to shut everything out. 

“Katsuki Yuri, and if you dare call me Fuzzy, or Furface, or, or —”

“Flufftail?” It was an interjection to mask Victor’s own surprise. _Yuri?_ Somehow he didn’t think Yura would be pleased to know he and the Beast shared any part of their names.

Yuri’s lips pulled back in response, exposing his canines. He didn’t growl, but his voice dipped lower when he retorted. “ _Or Flufftail_ , I’ll — I’ll _make_ you regret it.”

Victor smiled, teeth equally visible in return. Unlike with Yuri, his demeanour was largely friendly; aware and conscious of the threat Yuri was making while likewise choosing not to pay it overmuch attention. 

“Of course.” _Flufftail_ , he added with a mental grin. He shook Yuri’s hand, keeping his grip firm. He refused to flinch under the intentional strength of Yuri’s hold or the unfamiliar feel of Yuri’s hand, soft and rough in strange turns. “Nice to meet you, Katsuki Yuri.” 

It was a pleasant enough lie that Yuri canted his head to the side, eyes closed as he gave Victor his less pleasant approximation of a smile in return. Parroting Victor’s words back at him under a veneer of pleasantry, he said, “Just Yuri’s fine.”

They stood like that for a few seconds, each smiling, each keeping a firm hold on the other man’s hand. Neither was willing to back down from the silent challenge their introductions had become; a challenge to what and _over_ what remained a mystery. Then Yuri let go, pulling his hand away with a roll of his wrist. That was enough of that. He turned back to the door, hesitating before he redirected himself toward the sideboard. Hunger was a present enough companion, and it wouldn’t matter how he ate. It meant forgoing his rice and egg for the time being, though he picked one up anyway, along with a thick slice of bread. Better anything in his stomach than the current emptiness. He was already irritable enough. Knowing he had to deal with Victor to get him outfitted and tossed out of the castle meant he needed fortification.

He tried to ignore the mild look of surprise Victor shot his way when Yuri threw the whole of the egg into his mouth, tipping his head back as he crunched through shell, chewing with his mouth carefully closed. Yuri’s tail lashed behind him, smacking against the doorframe as he led the way back into the hall, expecting Victor to follow without prompting. Victor would need a satchel, then dried goods, a water canteen. He scanned his memory, thinking about where half of those could be found. There was a few satchels kept hung up near the door in the kitchen; the canteens would be there too. He strode on, breaking off pieces of bread with his fingers and popping them into the corner of his mouth, close to the back of his tongue. Small chunks were easy to swallow whole, if not as satisfying to taste. He didn’t want to give Victor more of a show of his particular eating habits than he already had.

He had to admit his stomach was at least feeling better as they went, Victor’s boots thudding on the stone behind him, Makkachin’s nails clicking as loudly as Yuri’s. It kept distracting him, one ear canted back to make sense of the sounds. He walked past the front entryway, ignoring the large carved doors in favour of the smaller set of doors leading to an offshoot hall. The door handles turned under his touch, swinging back on near silent hinges. Certain parts of the castle were in better shape than others. The ways to and from the kitchen were the best maintained. Not coincidental to how often Yuri found himself making his way there when looking for comfort food.

Victor watched with mute fascination and a touch of his own irritation. Following after Yuri, he frowned at the doors opening without so much as a squeak. He knew he’d tried these doors earlier. They hadn’t been so gracious as to budge for him. It was further reason to believe the master of the castle would be able to open the doors for Victor. Reason to hope that much was true.

It was also interesting to watch the Beast, no, interesting to watch _Yuri_ move. The oddity of his host sharing a name with the youngest member of Yakov’s troupe wasn’t lost on Victor, for all he rarely if ever used Yura’s proper name. He figured it wouldn’t matter for long, setting the thought to the side along with idle curiosities over the way Yuri moved, as if he walked on tip-toe, tail keeping aligned with his spine as he strode on. The silver embroidery of his tunic continued along the back of his neck, curling and looping in a pattern Victor couldn’t quite place. The bottom hem of his shirt was embroidered all the way around too, including along either side of the slit sewn in to accommodate for his tail. Victor wondered if something similar had been worked out with his trousers. It wasn’t a curiosity he intended to follow through on.

Dragging his eyes up to stare over Yuri’s shoulder, he made note of the doors they passed in this short hall. Two on the left, one on the right. It was the last door, set straight ahead, that they moved through next, emerging in a decently sized kitchen kept in orderly condition. Only one portion appeared to be in regular use, the cooking fire lit and next to the woodburning stoves. An icebox stood off to the side, top left open. It seemed unlikely it was in use. The castle was wired for electricity, but he had yet to see evidence of any electricity being in use. If Yuri didn’t maintain cooling spells for himself, which he theoretically could, being a water witch, then the fancy piece of equipment was little more than a decoration. A particularly ugly one.

“Will this do?” Yuri had pulled a brown leather satchel off a hook on the wall near the door leading outside. Victor held his hands out on reflex, accepting the satchel along with Yuri’s squint, blinking in amusement at how both oversized ears swiveled forward, focusing on Victor. 

“For supplies?” He turned the satchel over, checking for holes. The bag was worn and in need of a good oiling, but it looked proof enough for at least one journey through the winter landscape outside. The seams were well stitched, holding tight throughout. He flipped the top back, running one hand through the inside, grunting. “Seems sound. What’ll it cost?”

Yuri wrinkled his nose, waving his hand still clutching bread toward the nearby counter. “Nothing, if it gets you out of here. Is everything a business transaction for you?”

Victor snorted, setting the satchel down on the countertop. “When standing in a place as infused with magic as this one? I tread lightly. Thieves won’t do well here.”

Yuri’s ears pressed back flat against his skull, lips starting to pull back off his teeth again. He forced himself to breathe past the tightening in his chest as he stalked off toward the pantry. Regardless of how Victor meant what he said, Yuri had to take it as commentary on his reaction to Yakov. His response was a bitten off, “Thieves don’t do _well_ anywhere.”

He picked up several apples, a partial wheel of cheese, strips of smoked fish, and a beeswax cloth, leaving them in a pile on the counter. Yuri moved to the racks by the wood-burning stove next, taking three of the cooled rye buns from where they sat. He wasn’t going to be faulted for a lack of hospitality when he sent Victor on his way. Marching back to Victor, Yuri presenting him with the rolls without commentary. His ears were pointed forward, but his tail pressed close to the back of his legs. 

Victor watched Yuri move around the kitchen with curiosity, keeping Makkachin by his side and out of the way. He’d managed to tuck the cheese into part of the beeswax cloth, folding over it, then laying the strips of smoked fish on top, by the time Yuri approached him again. Makkachin gazed up at Yuri adoringly, big, dark eyes begging for a roll when she’d been so cruelly denied any of the fish.

“No, Makkachin, those aren’t for you.” He lifted his eyes to meet Yuri’s. “Thank you.”

Yuri looked away as Victor accepted the rolls. “You’re welcome,” he said, managing to make it sound more genuine than begrudging. Leaving Victor to finish packing his travel satchel, Yuri shook himself off and thought ahead to his own tasks of the day. While Victor negotiated with the pony, Yuri could take care of his self-assigned tasks in the stable. He unhooked the bag closer to the door, taking it down and flipping back the top to check on the contents. Unlike the empty one he’d given to Victor, this one was well stocked in various medical supplies. Collections of herbs, bottles of water and alcohol, various salves, a bar of soap in beeswax cloth, metal pliers, a sewing kit packed with only silk and catgut thread. The scalpel and scissors were wrapped in leather, tucked into the bottom of the bag.

Yuri didn’t use most the supplies he kept on hand. Didn’t want to, and didn’t largely know how aside from what he’d read in books in the library. One of those books was tucked into the bag, a bookmark through a section on dealing with lacerations and bite-wounds. He slipped the bag over one shoulder, ducking in the pantry to pick up another apple. 

Victor had everything packed away by the time Yuri looked around for him. With a nod toward the kitchen door, Victor quirked up his eyebrows. Were they heading out that way?

“May as well use the front door,” Yuri said, shrugging. He still didn’t fully believe Victor had been _unable_ to leave. Reluctant, perhaps, or tired and looking for an excuse to stay until he could extort supplies from Yuri.

_You know it isn’t extortion. It’s common sense._ He breathed in, breathing out on a three count, and started walking back through the castle, toward the front hall. He could heard Victor and Makkachin following close after.

In the front hall, Victor slowed down, hanging back a few good paces before coming to a halt. He looked beyond Yuri to the carved doors, crossing his arms over his chest and settling his expression into a neutral curiosity. Makkachin kept going, joining Yuri at the doors as he reached out and pulled on the handle. 

To no avail. The door creaked as Yuri pulled, but it no more opened under his hand than it had for Victor at any point earlier today. Yuri’s ears twitched, swiveling back as he gritted his teeth and pulled harder, grunting with the effort he was expending. Makkachin stood to the side, her tail wagging slowly, watching his struggle with the door.

Victor quirked his eyebrows up, lips pulling up at the corners. It was a dry sort of amusement that skated in alongside his lingering irritation at being summarily caged, even when he’d come here fully _expecting_ to be caged at best, killed at worst. Now that it turned out both he and the Beast in question were being treated to the same level of the ridiculous, he was in an almost cheerful fit of humour.

“What was that about using the front door?”

Yuri looked over his shoulder, shooting Victor a squinting glare. “Oh, _shut up_. This is what it was doing earlier?”

Victor nodded, watching Yuri attempt the other door handle with the same lack of success. “Yeah. Groaning and creaking, but not budging. Think there’s any chance ice has frozen them shut?”

Letting go of the door handles, Yuri straightened up, tugging on the hem of his shirt to set it to rights. He took a step back, examining the doors as critically as he could when they were a gentle blur of shadow and light. “Hasn’t ever happened before,” he said, voice sounding unsure even to his own ears.

“In how many years?”

“Five or so.” He turned to face Victor, making a sweeping gesture that included the other man and most the hall behind him. “Never before you showed up!”

“That long?”

Yuri felt like that was the wrong part of his statements to focus on. Five years felt both short and long in the scheme of things. His ears flicked forward, then back; he could hear Makkachin wandering around behind him, padding up to the door on her own. “Yes. That long. My _point_ is the front doors have never frozen shut.”

“Then we can rule that possibility out. Did you want to try one of the other doors? Or the windows?” Victor didn’t bother hiding his half-smile. Really, he wanted to get out, and by now it was more of a driving urge than even going anywhere once he found himself in the brisk winter air. If Yuri had the same complete lack of luck as Victor, _then_ he’d start worrying. Or breaking windows. 

Yuri stepped toward Victor while Makkachin pawed at the doors at his back. “Sorry, Makkachin, we’ll let you out soon.” Victor made a noise of protest over Yuri talking to his dog, making promises for her. Yuri ignored him. “Look, we can head back to the kitchens, take the door there and walk around the side of the castle. It takes longer, which is why I figured we could go out the front, but then we’ll be outside.”

“Ah,” Victor said, holding up a finger as if about to make a point. Yuri wasn’t sure what point, considering Victor didn’t have the familiarity with the castle grounds that Yuri did. “Have you considered this might be a bit of a, hm, personal problem? That we both share?”

Yuri found himself staring at Victor as if he’d just talked about growing horns and dancing around as the King of the Forest for the Autumn Harvest “A personal problem we both share. Like what? Excess facial hair?”

Victor breathed out in a snort, flicking his fingers toward the doors behind Yuri. The doors which he could feel cold air flowing from. He whipped back around, watching the doors slide shut as the last bit of Makkachin’s haunches disappeared outside.

“Like not being as charming and sweet as Makkachin, apparently. Your castle’s playing favourites.”

Yuri was gaping at the castle doors, ears canted back in surprise. “The dog just went out.”

“She did.”

“The castle just let the _dog_ out.”

“Yes, that definitely just happened.”

Yuri gestured to the doors, looking swiftly between them and Victor. “Those doors weren’t opening for me! Or for you! Dogs don’t even have thumbs, how…”

Victor shrugged, stepping forward to stand side by side with Yuri, examining the puzzle of the ornate, carved doors. “Well,” he said after a moment, tapping his index finger against his lips. “I don’t think she tried doing anything more than asking.” His finger dropped away from his lips. “We could try that.”

“There’s something fundamentally backward about this,” Yuri said, but he didn’t ignore the suggestion. He grimaced, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin to properly face down his newest opponent: his front door. “Castle. Will you please let me outside?”

There was no answer, not a click of a lock or the whine of a door opening on hinges. Yuri glanced over at Victor, who hitched his shoulders in a small shrug back. Stepping forward, Yuri pulled on the door handle.

The doors stayed unbudging. He made a noise of frustration, shaking his head like that would make the sudden absurdity of his life more sensible. “So much for asking nicely! _You_ try.”

Victor wasn’t sure they were managing to go about any of this right, but he nodded, finger once more tapping against his lips. If it wasn’t about the asking, then maybe there was something else in their intent. His dog wanted outside, but inevitably, she wanted back in.

His eyes lit up. What would lead the house to believe they would want back in? Yuri was a given, but if this was linked to what had happened between them with the rose, if the magic of the castle fed on that change in the geas on the rose, then maybe…

“Do you trust me?”

Yuri turned his face to Victor, the white and silver ticked fur over his eyes furrowed. He looked very much confused by the question, one ear twitching. “I… with what?”

Victor breathed out in a huff of frustration, indicating the door. “An idea for trying to go _out_.”

He regarded Victor for a moment, ear twitching at a sound from outside the doors. Makkachin, perhaps. He breathed in, then sighed out. “Yes, sure. Fine. I trust you with coming up with _an_ idea for going out.”

“Good.” Victor smiled, reaching out and grasping Yuri’s hand. The fur on the back of it was velvet soft; a thought that reminded him of touching velvet gloves in city stores while shopping for fabric to make their performance costumes. He shook off the errant memory, bringing both their hands forward to rest on the handle of the door. He could have explained his idea, could have simply asked for Yuri to lay his hand on the door, but there was enough of the devil in Victor to want to give Yuri a little hell for outright not believing him earlier.

Yuri spluttered and pulled back, but Victor held his hand there with a determined look in his eyes. “Let’s try this whole thing together. We’d like to go out, please, castle.” He shot Yuri a sideways look. “That _is_ what we both want, right?”

“ _Yes_ , but I can hold onto the handle myself, okay?” Even as he was objecting, Yuri could feel the difference. Almost as if the castle was letting out a quiet sigh of its own, the door swung inward, cold air breezing in from outside. The hinges didn’t even squeak.

Victor couldn’t keep himself from grinning, letting go of his hand pressing over Yuri’s to punch at the air overhead. “Yes! We did it! Haha _ha_ , take _that_ , castle!”

The door near immediately slammed shut.

Yuri shot him a mute glare, Victor scrambling to lean forward and take hold of the handle over Yuri’s hand once again. The door opened more reluctantly this time, but as they both maintained their hold, it swung open. Even stayed that way when both men paused, looking to each other, and simultaneously let go, hands hovering over the door handle.

Victor didn’t realise they’d both held their breath until he breathed out in a sigh of relief as the door remained open. He laughed, hands clutching at his sides, and before long, Yuri was laughing too. It was so patently ridiculous to have a door put up a resistance to opening, then open only when they were both holding onto the handle. Ridiculous, but also sobering.

Victor felt his smile fading even as his laughter turned into a hiccup for air. He breathed in deep, adjusting the strap of his satchel. He was one step closer to leaving, technically speaking, but he had a strange, stomach-knotting feeling that he was actually further away from it than ever.

“After you,” he said instead, tossing a smile in Yuri’s direction. His host nodded his head to Victor, smoothing his hands over his hair, pushing his large ears to either side as he stepped smartly right on out to the front stoop, descending the stairs without a backward look. “Thanks,” Yuri said, the delayed response tossed back over his shoulder.

Victor stepped through the door after him, shaking his head. Gallant gestures were a lost cause here.

He had no way of seeing Yuri’s not-quite canine smile as he headed toward the stables. The giddy relief at finding an answer meant he ignored the implications for the moment. It’d felt nice to _laugh_ , and not in bitterness; felt nice to not laugh alone but for the company of flowers and the drone of bees during the warmer months. 

He patted at his cheeks, combing his fur with his nails. The good humour was fast to fade, swallowed up by the faint horror of his own realisations. No, he could be happy in the moment, but he’d be all the happier seeing Victor leave. Less than a day in his home and Victor had already upset the careful balance of Yuri’s world. Once he was gone, Yuri would center himself again. Everything would settle back into being like it always was.

Victor jogged to catch up, Makkachin bounding toward them both with snow flying to either side. She barreled into Victor, nearly knocking him off his feet. He laughed as he caught his balance, patting her shoulder before she set off trotting in front of them both, stopping to shove her nose into the snow and push it up, sending snow flying. Makkachin went flying after, snapping at the snow as it fell.

“Are you planning on heading out too?” Victor gestured to the bag Yuri carried, one hand hooked into the strap of his borrowed satchel.

Yuri shook his head, fingers twisting the strap of his bag in consideration. “No, not like you. I need to check in on something, that’s all.”

“At the stables?”

“There’s hardly anything else out this direction.”

“You’re really not fond of explanations, are you?”

“I’m really not used to having to _talk_ this much.” He gave Victor a sideways look, eyes narrowing as he squinted, trying to make out Victor’s expression. He found it difficult to differentiate the details.

Victor hummed an acknowledgement of what Yuri had said. He could understand, given the stark lack of company he’d run into so far. His lips pressed into a thin line, thinking back to the quilt, to the spread for breakfast. “Not even to your servants?”

He hesitated, tail lashing at his heels. Yuri had gotten used to the invisible presence and the whispers of the “servants” around the castle. They knew better than to disturb him when he was resting, avoiding him altogether on the bad nights. His ears pointed backward as he counted the tally of days since his last blackout. Regular as clockwork, he’d be due for another in two days or so.

He realised he’d left Victor without an answer for a notable duration. Clearing his throat, he spoke in a rush, forcing his ears forward. “They don’t say much. Talking to someone you can’t see feels a lot like talking to empty air. I stopped trying after a while.”

More accurate to say he stopped listening when the voices could sound so familiar, whispering in his ears, cajoling and pleading. He’d tried chasing them out however he could, but the worst days were the ones where he spent hours apologising to everyone he felt he’d never see again. Those happened less often these days, but he could remember that first year, huddled in corners and curled up in blankets with his head shoved between his legs, remembering how to breathe.

“Ah,” Victor said, like he understood any of what Yuri left unsaid. “I can see how that wouldn’t feel rewarding.” Yuri was more expressive with the way he held himself and the movement of his ears and even his tail than Victor figured Yuri really knew. It was too genuine, the immediacy of his reactions; like he was unused to having to disguise his body language, for all he excelled at disguising his words, in Victor’s opinion.

The stable was the same champagne colour of the castle, slope-roofed and left open one end, wide enough for a pony to pass through. Hoofprints led in and out, along with tracks for some kind of bird; Victor frowned, studying the prints left in the fresh snowfall. Anything else was obscured, but he could almost pick out what looked like a cloven hoofprint. It didn’t make a great deal of sense unless Yuri kept cows or goats, but he might.

“How many animals live in here?” He peered into the dark opening, noting it wasn’t so dark as he was expecting. The thin windows he saw near the top of the stable walls must be responsible for keeping the interior better lit. He wondered how much it affected the temperature of the building. Following Yuri inside, Makkachin at his heels, he blinked in the surprising warmth, looking up to see the slanted sunlight streaming through the windows. Witchlight hung over several of the stalls, spreading light through the stables. Empty stall after empty stall greeted them with silence, but for an open box near the end of the row and a dark head that pulled up, turning to regard the intruders.

The black pony kept silent, strands of hay sticking out of his mouth as he chewed, watching. Yuri lifted a hand in greeting. Victor following suit.

“Have fun discussing your travel plans,” Yuri said, waving Victor off with a distracted motion. He strode on past, heading for the next stall over. Victor watched him go, wondering, but dismissed the curiosity in favour of turning a smile to the pony.

He strode forward, pulling one of the apples out of his satchel. The pony had been fully aware of what Victor had said earlier, responding in his own way. Better to approach this situation like he was speaking to another sensible being. One never knew what might set off a magical creature, which the pony _had_ to be, but rudeness was the most common.

He offered the apple to the pony, letting him choose to step forward and rub his nose over the apple’s skin. The pony’s ears pointed forward, head lifting and turned to the side so that he regarded Victor with one unblinking brown eye.

“Hello.” An ear flicked forward, acknowledgement of the greeting. Victor kept holding the apple out as he spoke. “The apple’s for you. I have a request I’d like you to hear me out for, but the apple’s not dependent on the listening.”

The pony thought this over, reaching out to delicately bite into the apple and lift it from Victor’s hand. He didn’t move away after, lips rolling the apple until he could pull the whole thing into his mouth and start crunching. Victor dropped his hand back down to his side, regarding the pony.

He was really doing this. He felt like an utter fool, but he was a performer, and this was another kind of courteous performance. He executed a shallow bow to the pony, straightening and leveling him with a serious expression. “I’m requesting assistance in getting back to the city. Yuri said I needed to discuss it with you, since he has no say in…”

The pony had already turned around and moved back into his box stall. Victor was left staring after him, eyebrows lifted up in his surprise.

“Is that a no?”

The pony’s tail flicked as he snorted, not bothering to turn back to Victor. It was the most abrupt brush off in Victor’s life, and he’d consorted with his fair share of cats. Like Yura.

“Huh. Doesn’t leave much room for discussion.” He rubbed the back of his head. On foot it would be, it seemed. At least he had still been in all his proper winter layers when he’d mounted up last night. He was much less likely to freeze like this.

With the pony studiously ignoring Victor, there was little for him to do other than find Makkachin and inform Yuri he was heading out. Much longer and he wouldn’t have enough daylight to walk by.

“Makkachin?”

He heard snorting and a quiet whine from the next box stall over. Where Yuri had been headed, he noted. Victor sighed, heading over and draping his folded arms over the top of the box. “Makkachin, did you follow Yuri in there? We should get going. Looks like it’s going to be a long walk, girl.”

His poodle wagged her tail hearing her name, the motion subdued. Her attention was otherwise focused on what Yuri was doing. He had knelt down next to a horse in the hay, working on cleaning wounds on its side. The bay had scabbing injuries all over its back and sides, missing part of its mane from a nasty looking bite. Its head drooped low, whickering in protest as Yuri checked on an injury high on its shoulder. 

Victor straightened up, eyes widening. The injuries had stolen most of his attention at first, but he _knew_ that horse. Moving to open the doorway, he stepped out onto the fresh hay, softly calling out. “Philua?”

The bay lifted his head, fully opening his eyes as an ear swiveled around to focus on Victor.

“Philua, it’s really you. Yakov said the wolves…” He trailed off, the horse nickering and attempting to stand. Victor made soothing noises, murmuring nonsense sentences as he encouraged the horse to stay down. “How did he survive? How did you even get him here?”

Yuri sat back on his heels, his tail curled around his toes. He ran a soothing hand down Philua’s back, leaning forward to squint at the shoulder wound he’d been most worried about. The flesh looked less inflamed today; a credit more to the horse than to Yuri, in his opinion. “I didn’t. The pony helped, but… Philua? Is that his name? Philua managed to limp back with us.”

Victor hummed an agreement. “Yura named him. One of the other members of Yakov’s troupe,” he added to clarify. He found Philua nuzzling against his middle, jostling the bag at his side. He could smell the apples inside, Victor figured. Scratching along the underside of Philua’s jawline, he shook his head in wonder. “You never mentioned he’d survived.”

Yuri’s ear turned toward Victor, hand resting on the horse’s back. Philua didn’t appear to mind the attention. He was focused on the potential apple Victor had, as if Yuri didn’t have the same fruit tucked away in his own bag. It was a good sign, seeing the horse’s appetite improve.

“I had other things on my mind. I would have sent him along once he was healed,” he said, sounding close to defensive. 

Victor didn’t seem to notice his tone. “Yakov will be so happy to hear he’s all right.” He glanced to Yuri, fingers still busy with their gentle ministrations. “You’ve been healing him?”

He sighed, looking balefully back at the largest gash on Philua’s shoulder. “I’ve been trying. There are some books I’ve read, and what I remember from before, but beyond that? I don’t know. I never studied anything with healing.”

“You say that, but these bites are already starting to heal over. They look a week older, maybe more. You’re saying that isn’t your work?”

Yuri shook his head. “No, not mine. If anything, it’s probably the castle. It does things like that sometimes.” He capped his tub of ointment, tucking it back into his bag. “You’ve felt the magic here? It’s intense. Overwhelming sometimes, really. It feels like it has a mind of its own when there’s enough of it, before it blows over.” He grimaced, pulling his bag back on over a shoulder.

Victor frowned, not sure he understood. “I woke up with more of a headache than when I arrived here,” he said, agreeing on the point of intensity. “Though that couldn’t have been more than a few hours.”

Yuri shrugged. “It’s always worse around this time of the month. A few hours can have a pretty noticeable difference.” He stood, fluid in his movement, showing a predator’s unthought grace as he regained his feet. Or that of a dancer, Victor mused; he wondered if Yuri had any training in his own field, in his past. 

There were more important things to focus on. “What do you mean?” He stayed by Philua’s head, offering him an apple from his satchel at last. The horse crunched into it, content. Feeling better than he had any right to be feeling, by the look of his healing injuries. Victor was only glad for it.

“I… I’m not sure. It’s like the magic around here tends to have its own tide? You know, when the waters come in and pull back out again, depending on the moon.” Yuri’s ears flicked back, uncertain of his choice in metaphor or Victor’s reception of what he was saying.

“Like tides. So there’s a ‘high’ tide of magic, followed by a ‘low’ tide?” 

With no hint that Victor was mocking him, Yuri found a little more certainty in his ability to go on. He used both his hands to try and illustrate the concept as he spoke. “I don’t think it’s actually a tide, but it’s how I think of it. The pressure and the magic gets heavier and heavier leading up to the high tide; which is the opposite of what I’d expect of a real tide. It’s kind of backward, but the magic crests at its worst on the night of the new moon instead of the full moon. The next morning, the tide’s gone out again. The difference is incredible. It’s like you can breathe freely again.”

He brought his hands back in front of him, clutching around the strap of his bag as he shuddered. He spent enough time feeling like he couldn’t breathe that having an actual outside reason was both reassuring and terrible; knowing it wasn’t just him was nice, but he had no means of handling the external force of it all. Yuri looked over to Victor, surprised to find him sitting back on his heels, knuckle of his index finger resting against his chin.

_Magic that flows like a tide?_ He wouldn’t have used that terminology before, but he understood the concept. Some places were natural gathering points for power, magical or otherwise. He could recall a handful of contracts with sorting out knots of magic trapped and backing up, causing all kinds of odd occurrences and malfunctions for the electronics. It was part of what made the surges throughout the country difficult, though most city systems had adapted to handle them. It was the isolated pockets with their high concentrations of magical energy that proved difficult; they felt similar and different than what Victor was feeling now.

“What about the castle?”

“The castle?” Yuri furrowed his brow, unsure what Victor meant.

“Does it change at all? Become any less aware of itself?” He had moved on to petting Philua’s neck, watching the bay more than anything else. Makkachin stretched out her nose to sniff at the horse, wagging her tail again.

“Less enchanted? Not really. The castle doesn’t seem to respond to the whole… tides thing.” He wasn’t sure, if he was honest. He barely had terminology to describe what he _felt_ happening, let alone what it did and didn’t affect. “I don’t feel like it’s made from the same magic.”

Victor nodded, the stroking of his hand turning into a careful patterning of his fingers. Circles and swirls, feeling for the response of any healing magic in Philua. _Ah, there. Something’s feeding him a low level healing spell continuously. That takes an incredible amount of energy to pull off._ Something the castle might manage, tapping into Yuri’s ‘tide’ of magic?

He shook his head, looking over his shoulder to meet Yuri’s gaze. The oddity of his furred face didn’t strike him quite as disconcerting as it first had; in a way, it was almost endearing. Misleadingly endearing. “Yuri, may I impose on you until after the new moon? I’d like to be able to tell Yakov and the rest more about Philua’s recovery. If it’s not presuming too much, I’d also like to get a sense of what you mean by this tide of magic. Call it professional curiosity.” He smiled.

Yuri’s shoulders hunched in, eyes widening in surprise. His mouth opened, a small gasp escaping before he could help himself. “You want to _stay?_ ”

Victor pulled his hands back off Philua, leaving off his tracing of patterns. He held them up, pivoting around so that he was squaring off with Yuri. He kept his eyes down, palms open; he didn’t know if Yuri responded to canine body posture or not, but on the off chance he did, Victor didn’t want to provoke him right now. “Until after the new moon, yes. Two days.”

The idea was patently absurd. Even more absurd was the way Yuri felt his pulse starting to race; he didn’t know if it was dread or ill-advised excitement. He made himself close his mouth, squinting at Victor. He really needed to put his glasses on. At this point, it was more ridiculous to keep squinting at Victor trying to figure out how sincere he was or wasn’t than it would be to bear with wearing his proper glasses.

“Two days,” he said, repeating Victor slowly. Two days felt long. Disturbingly long. Two days through the roughest time in the castle, and Yuri’s own personal monthly nightmare. If he was honest, he didn’t want anyone around him then. He didn’t want the intrusion. “Then you’ll head home?”

Victor nodded, watching emotions flit across Yuri’s features. Odd how many he could recognise, even with the unfamiliar body language Yuri naturally employed. “Yes. Two days, then I’ll head back to the city.”

Silence fell between them, only interrupted by the breathing of both Makkachin and Philua. The pony poked his head in the door, staring in at both men and snorting pointedly. It was enough to startle them both, Yuri jumping and whirling around to stare at the pony, Victor crouching further down. Philua whickered, turning his head to look toward the pony.

The pony snorted again, whickering back. Then he backed up, no longer darkening the stall door, and Victor found himself exchanging glances with Yuri.

“Kind of has an attitude, doesn’t he?”

“Normally he’s much more soft spoken.”

They both paused, then started laughing. Makkachin shook herself off, trotting between the two of them. Whatever tension was tightening around Yuri eased off for the time being, and he breathed in deep. The scent of salve and sweat and clean hay and an undercurrent of urine was all familiar, grounding in a sense. He’d be fine. This would be fine. He could lay out his boundaries at the start and play host for two days. It wouldn’t kill him.

It _probably_ wouldn’t kill him.

“Two days,” he said. “You’ll be a guest for two more days, and then you’ll be on your way. Under _two_ conditions.” He held up his hand, all fingers curled into his palm. “One, you don’t enter my suite of rooms. I like my privacy, and I don’t like it being disturbed. Anywhere else in the castle is fair.” The idea of that last sanctuary being invaded was almost enough to send his heart racing and his teeth on edge. He concentrated on breathing, holding up a second finger. “Two, you only enter the greenhouses with my supervision. Deal?”

Victor regarded Yuri with a solemn look, their impromptu laughter having chased off an edge of his own tension. He was getting more and more of a sense for Yuri’s desire for privacy, seeing how he was protective of his space. Beyond that, even, there was more going on here than Victor had seen. He was curious as to what that was, who _Yuri_ was and how he’d ended up here of all places, but he had other priorities. The mystery of a Beast locked up in a castle tending to his garden and keeping company with a wise creature was the kind of fairy tale he didn’t have time for.

So instead Victor stood, offering Yuri his hand for the second time that day. “Deal. Thank you for having me, Yuri.”

Yuri only hesitated for a heartbeat. “You’re welcome. For the time being.”

He kept their handshake short and perfunctory, letting go and staring past Victor to the horse. He’d need to bring out bran for him in a few hours, now that he was eating. Fresh water in the trough at the back of the stall was in reach, but if the horse wasn’t moving well on his own, he might want to bring another bucket over and help him drink in that way. Victor pulled him out of his own musings with a polite clearing of his throat, raking a hand through his silver hair.

“Ah… Yuri? Since I’ll be here for a while longer, after we’ve seen to Philua, would you mind showing me where I can get a proper bath?”

Yuri’s tail lashed behind him, his eyes lighting up with a certain mischievous, self-satisfied air. Here was one thing he knew would be a pleasant revelation. One he didn’t mind showing off because it had been no accomplishment of his; if Victor had the poor taste to not be impressed, it was no fur off Yuri’s muzzle. Or skin off his nose. The baths predated Yuri’s arrival at the castle, and they were _magnificent_.

“Oh, I think I’ll be able to manage that much.” He smiled, a softer squint of his eyes and curling up of his stiff lips, tip of his tongue lolling out the front of his mouth. It looked like the genuine expression it was, smiling in a way only a canine could. “It should be a nice little surprise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three posted, chapter four begun! Questions? Comments? Let me know what you think! It took how many words to get the set up ironed out? Laughs, here's to hoping it's been enjoyable either way. Now we're left looking forward to the next few days. What's Yuri so worked up about? What does Victor hope to accomplish sticking around through the new moon? 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I have a busy weekend coming up, but I'll be working on getting through chapter four for y'all. A shout out to vagrancies for being an amazing beta reader!


	4. in which the castle plays a prank, and victor experiments with magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor saved him the trouble of chasing that unsettling thought too much further than it had already gone by speaking first. 
> 
> “Your castle stole my clothing and I’d like it back.”
> 
> That was so far from anything Yuri expected him to say that he could only keep staring in dumbfounded surprise before managing a strangled, “Wait, what?”

When Yuri led the way back from the stables into the castle proper, all doors cooperating as if they'd never dreamed of doing otherwise, Victor was lost more in his own thoughts than anything else. Yuri wasn't inclined to chat, though there was more bounce in his step, ears perked forward in anticipation of their destination. Or so Victor was inclined to believe: Yuri hadn't offered clarification beyond his statement about surprises.

Which was admittedly appealing to Victor. Surprises could go several ways, from pleasant to outright painful, but where the potential for bathing was involved, he imagined the only unpleasant surprise would be discovering Yuri was an ice-diving enthusiast. In which case Victor was well versed in warming water over the fire and filling up a tub on his own. He'd manage, even using one of the troughs by the stables. He doubted Philua or the pony would mind his company. The pony would probably find it amusing.

All thoughts about either one flew out of his head when he stepped through the doorway into a smaller, wooden-floored room. Low cupboards without doors lined one wall, several towels folded neatly on top. A wooden container with what looked like soap and a smaller towel draped over its handle sat on top the cupboard nearest the door. 

Across from where they’d entered, an ornately carved wooden archway led into the room beyond. The floors had been paved in natural stone of all sizes, warmer in colour than the marble from parts of the interior castle halls. Three pools were outlined with cut blocks of similar stone, raised to calf height from the floor. Two stood higher, on the same level, some distance apart, with the third standing between them a full level lower.

“This is _amazing_ ,” he said, gasping as he came to a dead stop behind Yuri. Victor’s hands came up, fingers spread, as if he could halt this moment in time to take in everything he was seeing. He knelt, cold fingers working at the laces of his boots until he could pull his feet free. Stripping off his socks was a matter of practicality: he had only one pair. If he was heading out again later to check in on Philua with Yuri, he’d prefer his socks remain dry.

Yuri watched Victor fumbling out of his boots with poorly concealed amusement. It was gratifying to be right. He almost felt smug about it, but he couldn’t say Victor had been terribly difficult to please in his half day as a guest. It left a squirming feeling in Yuri’s stomach, wondering if any longer would start exposing Yuri’s faults as a host. Or if Victor would become more demanding over the next few days.

He shook off those thoughts best he could, relegating the worry to the back part of his mind as Victor straightened and danced forward to the carved entrance into the baths proper. Makkachin trailed at his heels, thrusting her head past him to sniff the air, giving an unsure wag of her tail.

He was struck again by the simple pleasure Victor wore so visibly as he turned back toward him, eyes wide and smile beaming. “I can use these? _We_ can use these?” Victor gestured between himself and the dog at his side, turning the gesture into a more broad one that included Yuri as well.

Yuri chose to ignore that. He nodded, a slow and exaggerated movement, tipping his muzzle toward the archway Victor stood beneath. “The baths handle me fine,” he said, vaguely motioning to himself. “The nearest pool runs hot, with the other one on that level running cold. Where they both cascade down into the lower pool should be safe for Makkachin.” Yuri could stand the heat of the true hot spring, but he found if he stayed in for long, it was too easy to overheat. Makkachin should be more comfortable in the warm pool, sticking toward the cooler end. Victor could handle himself.

“There’s usually fresh towels out here along with soap and combs.” He’d never personally seen a razor be presented, but offering a razor to a fox-beast was asking for both the ludicrous and impossible. He was a beat belated in clarifying what he meant in mentioning this in the first place. Attempting not to fidget, he added, “You’re welcome to use whatever you find.” 

Victor may as well not have heard in the first place. As soon as Yuri mentioned the baths handling him without trouble, Victor had descended the three steps from the wooden undressing area into the stone floor of the bathing area. Makkachin clattered after him, tail wagging as she veered from her owner to the side of the hot bath, sniffing at it before sneezing and veering away again with a wuff of air and extra spring to her step. Victor approached the hot bath, crouching down beside it to trail his fingers through the water. It was _delightfully_ hot, prompting a low whistle of admiration from Victor. He turned his torso back toward Yuri, waving his hand.

“Thank you, I will! Makkachin, did you hear? That means it’s _bath_ time,” he said just as Makkachin took a flying leap into the lower pool, paddling around with enthusiasm. Yuri whipped around to leave when Victor started stripping out of his layers to go after his dog. He didn’t need the mental image to become blurry visual _fact_. 

On second thought, maybe he needed to continue not wearing his glasses. For survival purposes. Two days of dealing with squinting at everything would be fine! He’d had to deal with that when he was still figuring out how to fit his glasses on his new face. He could handle it again.

Yuri’s tail twitched along at the back of his legs as he stalked off. Victor could doubtlessly handle the bath on his own, and Yuri had other self-elected chores to keep him busy.

* * *

Makkachin plunged in and out of the warm and cold pools three times before Victor had her enthusiasm under control, her partially soaked owner having given up and laid out his clothing to dry in the undressing area. He joined her with a bar of soap and three towels that he tucked up away from the baths proper. He was civilized enough to use the shower first, rinsing off and calling her over to work on lathering her up. The end results left them both smelling faintly of oatmeal and some kind of flower. Lavender, maybe? Victor wasn’t certain. Makkachin made a game of snapping at the stream of water that came out of the spigot before settling in and allowing Victor to work the soap through her fur. She shook lathered bubbles off on him twice, leading to the whole scrub-down and rinsing process taking even longer than it should.

He didn’t mind. If anything, taking the time to work Makkachin over let him relax and laugh at her antics, mind idly puzzling through the various mysteries his less-than-a-day in residence at the castle had provided. Most were ones he’d be leaving behind after the new moon. It didn’t stop him from wondering.

While he ushered Makkachin back to the cold bath, mentally shrugging his shoulders when she looped two paws over the top edge of the water and dipped her head down to drink, he wondered at what possibly could have left Yuri in this condition. If he’d only been here for a matter of years, and wasn’t responsible for building the castle, then how had he come to it at all? Was that before or after his present condition took effect? Was it a curse? With the way the magic here responded to Yuri, Victor couldn’t decide if it was pure curse, or part of Yuri’s own water magic. Unless the two fed on each other?

It gave him a headache, all the kind of theory that he didn’t have to deal with because it was so patently ridiculous. Calling Makkachin to him, he stepped into the warm pool, eyes roving over the small boulders sunk into the pool like natural ornamentation. All three pools had their own variation, and the water flowing down from the higher pools flowed over riverstone to pool in the larger middle pool, where Victor current sat. He didn’t want Makkachin overheating in the hot spring proper.

Plus, being where both springs mingled, he could get a sense for what magic flowed through them, two separate, burbling presences. While the presentation was artificially created, both the hot and cold spring were natural in and of themselves. Makkachin splashed by with relish, Victor lifting an arm to guard his face as she went. He rolled over, staying submerged for the most part, walking himself toward the artificial creek flowing down from the hot spring.

Heat wasn’t all that was flowing in from there. He closed his eyes, relaxing into the sensation of almost-living water _singing_ to his senses. It’d come from deep in the earth, where it was very warm, and very tight, and very anxious to move up, up, _up_ and away. Traces of minerals were carried along with its flow, mingling with lines of magic that crisscrossed the castle estate. Victor couldn’t get a proper reading on that, only the general impression; the hot spring water didn’t reside close to the surface of the earth, and so carried few of its superficial secrets.

What it did carry with it was a similar sense of healing as Victor had experienced with Philua in the stables. Which was startling. Having spells carried by an element was one thing, and water witches themselves could be wonderful healers, if their talents and training leaned in that direction. Yet this wasn’t the water being part of the magic: it was water ferrying along a secondary spell, weaving together with it, with neither part feeding on the other. He knew that was possible under guidance, such as what any trained witch could manage, but he had no feeling of a singular _will_ guiding the process here in the castle. Unless it _was_ the castle. Could it be?

He opened his eyes when Makkachin nosed his side looking for attention. Victor smiled, small and thoughtful. Could he encourage that magic to further its function using his own magic? The framework of the spell was already there, perpetuating itself. Victor could add the raw power if he spent some time on calling on the latent magic he felt permeating the area and used himself as a containment vessel. Like working with the Troupe on greater magics, only with the castle grounds as his dance partner, he supposed.

It was an odd thought. The promising kind of odd. Yakov always said Victor took chances and creative liberties that most witches wouldn’t _dream_ of doing. Victor had pointed out in his amiable, matter-of-fact manner that it likely made it an obligation that the one who _did_ dream of doing these things _act_ on their doing, too. Yakov might not strictly agree, but he didn’t argue that Victor failed to produce results, or to push their limits and continue to redefine them. It was a mentality each member of the Troupe shared to an extent. (It still drove Yakov crazy.)

He rallied to stand and step up out of the water, Makkachin shaking off as soon as she was on the stone floor. He shielded his face with his arm, calling out her name in mock outrage. “Makkachin!” Her tail wagged, looking closer to a thin whip than its usual plume. He snorted, moving to the towels and patting himself dry before he called her over and started vigorously rubbing her down. It was warm in the baths, but once they were outside of their domain, the winter temperatures would take over.

When he had Makkachin as satisfactorily dry as he could manage, Victor slung all three towels over his arm and carried them toward the dressing area. He wasn’t sure how the castle handled laundering soiled towels, sheets, _or_ clothing, but he could at least lay the towels out to start to dry. Climbing the three steps into the dressing area, he scanned the cupboards and benches for anywhere to spread the dirty towels.

He noticed the absence of what should have been there almost as soon as he noticed the fact his boots were neatly set to the side, ready and waiting. All of his layers of clothing, gathered and deposited back in the dressing room after he’d pulled Makkachin out of the water, were gone. Dumping the towels on the nearest surface, Victor started systematically looking through the open-faced cupboards, going so far as to get down on his knees and look _under_ as well as on top of every surface in the room. 

No clothes. No jacket, no _socks_ , absolutely nothing besides his boots that he hadn’t brought in from the bathing area itself.

“Castle,” he said, standing and propping his hands on his hips as he frowned and stared at the ceiling. (Staring at the wall felt too much like a different sort of despondency.) “I’d like my clothing back, please. They were perfectly respectable and well patched and much cleaner than they could have been.”

Outside of the gentle burbling of water from behind him in the bathing chamber, nothing stirred at Victor’s address. He could _feel_ something paying attention, but the magics of the castle itself seemed largely unconcerned. The sensation of being surreptitiously watched was unsettling.

“Look, it’s the middle of winter, I’m not going to wander around the castle _naked_.”

He heard a faint noise, almost like stifled laughter. He whirled around to catch whatever was responsible, finding no one there. As he turned back toward the door, however, there was one obvious change. A fresh towel sat on the cupboard by the door.

“Okay,” he said, drawing out the sound of the one word. “That’s a _towel_. That isn’t what I was wearing when I came in here.”

More silence. He stared at the door this time, looking less than impressed.

Then Victor made himself smile.

“Look, I’m not planning on leaving the castle for the next two days at least. I can tell something’s going on here, and your master is…” He trailed off, lifting a hand from his hip to make a circling gesture, trying to find a word that would work to describe whatever Yuri was to him. “Surprising. He’s different than what I was expecting. But unless you’re planning on keeping me in the bath for the next few days, or forever, which I strenuously object to no matter how attractive I look when half-wet, I’m going to need to wear _something_ in order to not freeze moving around this place. Which I have permission to do, granted by _your_ master.”

There was an expectant quality to the silence that followed his monologuing at the door. Then a flutter of falling fabric, Victor startling as his vision went dark. His hands came up to catch the material draped over his damp head and shoulders, pulling it off with a grunt. He was left holding a silk robe in a sky blue, embroidered with lily of the valley on both front panels. The ornate circle on the back wasn’t familiar, but he could hazard a guess as to what it meant. Katsuki Yuri was the master of the castle. It stood to reason this was some form of emblem for his house.

“Thanks,” he said, keeping his smile in place. “Though I don’t know that raiding my _host’s_ wardrobe for a bathing robe to keep me decent is going to help with the cold.” 

Nonetheless, he shook out the robe with gentle hands, hesitating for a moment before tossing it over his shoulders, shrugging into it. He found it almost fit, a little snug in the shoulders if he pulled the front panels tight over his chest. He left them looser, using the robe’s tie to keep them closed over his abdomen and legs. It was warmer, though not by much. In fact his rear still felt particularly breezy, which was surprising enough that he twisted around to look behind him, reaching out with a hand. Had his hair soaked through the robe?

His hand encountered the problem when he felt the open slit sewn into the silk. He tugged on the material, pulling it to the side and regarding what he found. The keyhole patterning was similar to how Yuri’s tunic earlier had been sewn to accommodate his tail. On Victor it meant leaving his rear end out for the world to view, having no tail to conveniently mask the slit in the fabric. He let out a disbelieving snort.

“You know, we could have avoided all of this if you’d left me my undergarments.” 

The castle provided no immediate response. It also failed to produce his original clothing. Instead, Victor found himself confronted with an opening door leading into an empty hall after the empty silence of a few minutes.

Commentary enough. 

He untied the robe to wrap the dry towel around his waist. Tying the front once more, he picked up his boots, leading himself and his dog back out into the main body of the castle. His distraction from earlier meant he wasn’t sure where he was, exactly, but the low level irritation of having the castle pull a child’s prank of running off with all his clothing while he bathed had him feeling both bold and _pointed_. As a result, he strode on like he knew where he was going, calling out, “Take me to Yuri, castle. Now, if you please.”

Manners, even thin manners, were still important. After all, Victor remained a guest, not a prisoner. Being a rude guest was liable to have backlash from the environment if not his host himself, and the veneer seemed to be paying off. As he walked along, tapestries down the hall swayed in an invisible breeze and doors opened up to the side with a distinctive _click_. He was being led, one way or another, by a similar presence to the watchfulness he’d encountered in the changing area.

Not the castle, then. The servants? He couldn’t shake off the idea that there _had_ to be someone or something taking care of the chores the castle couldn’t manage on its own. Unless Yuri did all his own cooking, mending, tidying, and the rest. Maybe he did.

He could ask Yuri after demanding he help get Victor’s clothing returned.

* * *

Yuri was in the process of pouring the hot water into the rice bran he’d measured out in a bucket when Victor found him in the kitchens. Yuri had given in to common sense, his glasses perched over the bridge of his snout, the pieces meant to rest along his temple and hook behind his ear were his features still human carefully clipped into his fur. It served to keep his glasses steady even when he moved quickly; a fact he might have appreciated better if he wasn’t whipping around at the sound of someone padding into the area, kettle in hand, to see Victor standing there in one of Yuri’s least worn robes, far too much of his chest exposed to be even close to decent.

Yuri almost dropped the kettle, eyes going wide. He knew Victor was attractive, but it still caught him off-guard _how_ attractive his temporary guest really was when being properly seen. Victor’s lips were curled up into a small smile that didn’t make it to his eyes, made all the more startlingly blue by the colour of his robe. His collarbone disappeared into the sky blue of his robe, but the deep vee of his plunging neckline had Yuri’s eyebrow whiskers shivering as he quirked them up. Not only could the man apparently not dress himself properly, he had the audacity to look _good_ with far too much skin exposed to the chill within the castle. He looked closer to pouting than frustrated with the way he pursed his lips and shook his head as he came to a stop just inside the door.

Makkachin brushed past Victor, heading straight for Yuri while he stared dumbfounded at the damp-haired, tousled vision that was Victor.

_He’s going to get a head cold if he’s walking around like that_ , he thought to himself, quickly followed by, _Where in the world did he get a robe from?_ Had Victor already broken Yuri’s simple requests by going into his wing? An unhelpful part of his mind supplied the unnecessary question: _While nude?!_

Victor saved him the trouble of chasing that unsettling thought too much further than it had already gone by speaking first. 

“Your castle stole my clothing and I’d like it back.”

That was so far from anything Yuri expected him to say that he could only keep staring in dumbfounded surprise before managing a strangled, “Wait, what?”

Victor repeated himself, one hand settling on his hip. He was keeping himself from crossing his arms over his chest through an effort of willpower. “Your castle, since I’m presuming it belongs to you in some form, stole my clothing. Everything except my boots.” He held up his other hand, boots dangling by their laces.

Yuri turned his head, glancing between Victor and his boots, then stepped away to set down the kettle he was still holding. He patted Makkachin on the head as she brushed up against him, accepting her dues of attention before sniffing her way along the baseboards in hunt of anything edible left fortuitously on the floor.

“It’s as much its own castle as anyone else’s,” Yuri said, ear flicking to the side. He felt a thrum of recognition from the magic around them; the castle seemed to approve of his answer, even if Victor continued to stare him down.

It bothered Yuri less than he thought it would. He lifted his chin, looking back over his shoulder as he pulled a kitchen towel over the top of the bucket. The bran would need time to set and cool anyway.

“I guess that explains the robe. The, um… the castle brought that to you?”

Victor lowered his boots, regarding Yuri with a level gaze before sighing. “When I was arguing how walking around naked wasn’t beneficial for anyone involved.” Victor fought the quirk of his lips upward as the absurdity of his own statement registered. He’d been arguing with a castle about the health hazards of being a wintertime nudist. “It’s too cold.”

“So the castle brought you a silk robe?”

“Or the servants did.”

Yuri paused, looking like he might argue. Both his ears twitched, and he breathed out hard through his nose. “Or the servants did,” he said at length, uncomfortable with the idea. It was easier to think of the invisible hands that helped around the castle as an extension of the castle itself. Uncomfortable to wonder if they were actually servants of some kind, elementals or anything else. At least they rarely tried speaking with him these days.

Victor didn’t miss Yuri’s reaction, finally dropping his hand away from his hip and approaching. The glasses perched on Yuri’s muzzle registered, but he opted not to comment, instead looking past him to the bucket on the countertop. “Is that for Philua?”

Grateful for the change in topics, Yuri nodded. He took a step away from Victor, brushing against Makkachin. She obligingly moved out of the way, looking up at the both of them, ever hopeful. “It still needs to cool. I was thinking about chopping up an apple, but since he had one earlier, maybe just throwing oats over the top…”

Victor nodded, not knowing enough about horse husbandry either way to have a firm opinion. _Don’t overfeed the horses_ was the extent of his dietary knowledge when it came to them. 

“He’ll love it either way. He’s as much a walking stomach as Makkachin. Which I love you for, girl, don’t take it the wrong way, but if you weren’t as active as you are, you’d be rolling around, fat as an autumn bear.” Makkachin wagged her tail at her name, ears lifted expectantly. He stepped around Yuri to give her an affectionate pat on the head. “Do you end up doing much of your own cooking here?”

Yuri focused on the bucket and not on the fact he could hear Victor’s borrowed robe slipping open. He hadn’t asked for this. Couldn’t the man tie a knot worth his life? “Not so much these days. I used to, but there’s only so much cooking for myself that I could get excited about.” Cooking was good. Cooking was a safe, non-naked subject. 

Victor made a noise of acknowledgement in the back of his throat. He could imagine that being in one’s own company with no one else living and tangible around for years at a time would wear anyone but the determined misanthropes down. He could hardly imagine living without the lively energy and vibrant personalities of his fellow witches in Yakov’s Troupe. He’d been apart from them before, they all had; at times they took independent contracts, or weren’t required for a smaller show with only two or three of the others involved. He didn’t miss them yet, but if he was staying here any longer than the handful of days he intended, he knew he would. Yura’s arguments, Mila’s pointed observations and jokes, Georgi’s inescapable romanticism, Yakov’s biting, grounded practicality. They were cornerstones in his life, and meals made with or for each other carried a sense of companionship and family, even when Yura was being sullen and silent. He was at that age. Victor didn’t take it personally.

Being isolated from all of that, shut away in a castle with an amazing bath and an equally amazing lack of companionship? Victor shivered, not just from the cold. He’d hate it. Being able to be on his own and alone when he needed it was entirely different from this kind of total isolation.

“We tend to take turns sharing chores in the troupe. I’m not a bad cook myself, but it’s always too much effort to bother when it’s just me and Makkachin. There’s something more rewarding in cooking for an audience, even if just an audience of one.” 

Some of the tension Yuri had been carrying in his shoulders relaxed, his chin dipping down into a shallow nod. “It was easier to let the castle take care of it.”

“Mm. I presume the same for morning meals?”

Yuri nodded again, reaching out to adjust the towel over the bran bucket. “If I make requests the day before, things tend to go more smoothly. I’m not always sure where the supplies come from, but the pantry stays filled past whatever I manage to can, preserve, or smoke on my own the rest of the year. We always have eggs, though I’ve never had a laying hen around here; that sort of thing.”

Victor quirked up his eyebrows, looking with renewed wonder back toward the pantry door. Magic, yes, but a strange sort. Most magic relied on some kind of give and take. Could the magic here be generating something from nothing? Or was it more likely converting one kind of edible object for another? There were plenty of trees on the property. That kind of conversion was a waste of magical energy most the time, but with the sheer surplus available here, it wasn’t all that improbable.

He shook his head. No, he didn’t need to start wondering about another mystery in the castle. Two more days and he was heading home. This wasn’t his story to investigate. Yuri wasn’t hiring him on as a witch, though even if he were, Victor had no idea how that’d really help anything out. He wasn’t a formal investigator; there weren’t many of those around the city this time of year. One of the few who had been went missing months back, following one of many dead ends about the missing witch cases.

“If that isn’t a pleasant mystery. Yuri, I have a proposal.”

Yuri’s ears perked up, one eye watching Victor while his tail went stiff behind him. His furred hands pressed against the countertop, suddenly tense again. _I really wish he’d chosen a different wording._ “Are you asking me to listen?”

“Yes, unless it’d be too much of an imposition on my host.”

Yuri grimaced. Most of him wanted to say it would be an imposition. He didn’t feel terribly obliged to be a gracious host, but by nature, he wasn’t a deeply ingracious one either. Just reserved and preferring to be in control of his own solitude.

At length he breathed in, letting out a long, low sigh. “Fine,” he said, relenting at last. “I’ll listen.”

Victor smiled, crossing his arms over his chest. He shivered again, this time purely in reaction to the chill in the air where the warmth of the kitchen fire didn’t quite make it to him. “I’ll make dinner the night after next.” He waited for Yuri’s reaction. He didn’t have to wait long.

Yuri pulled his head back, turning to square off with Victor, ears held askance. “You’re proposing to make me dinner.”

“More like make _us_ dinner, since I’d like to eat too, but yes, that’s what I’m proposing.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” He countered, tipping his head to the side.

Yuri looked temporarily flummoxed. “Because you’re an unwilling,” and unwanted, Yuri reminded himself, “guest here? Why in the world would _anyone_ cook for their host?”

Victor held up his hand, fingers curled into his palm. He still smiled, relaxing into the expression and his genuine amusement at Yuri’s protests. It wasn’t traditional, that was for sure, but his reasoning was fairly simple. “One, I’m never going to get a chance to use a kitchen like this again in my lifetime. Two, I’m curious to see this pantry at work, and I’ll need to make my requests tomorrow to fit in with your timeline. Three, I _like_ cooking, and since I’ll be leaving the next morning, consider it a kind of thank you and goodbye from one water witch to another.”

Yuri could find flaws in every one of Victor’s points, but to his own surprise, he didn’t really want to. He still felt his shoulders hunch up, glancing away and wondering if it wasn’t a set-up to mock how Yuri ate, or a parting punch to the gut on the night that he really, really didn’t need it. That was enough of a worry that he knew he couldn’t accept as it was, tail tucking close against his legs. He’d seem unreasonable if he just said no, but what else could he say?

His ears perked forward as the solution presented itself to him. “Tomorrow night. _I’ll_ cook the night after.” His tail came up at the idea, curling into a lazy arc with its white tip swaying behind him. It solved one of his problems with lingering and driving himself up a wall waiting for the worst to happen, like he usually did. Focusing on cooking, maybe even impressing Victor — wait. Impressing _Victor_? He chased that thought out of the front of his mind by making himself keep talking, the words tumbling out one after another. 

“You’ll have to tell the castle what you need before night falls, but if you do, everything should be here in the morning. Be specific. I asked for flour once and ended up with a bunch of dried lavender for some reason, so after that, I clarified which kind whenever I was asking.” He paused for breath, hands curling in to rest against his stomach. What else, what else… “The really exotic ingredients are harder. Those don’t always show up, or might not for days or weeks at a time.”

Victor gave a nod of his head. This was more information that he strictly needed, but it was fascinating: almost as fascinating as watching Yuri slowly unfurl, growing more animated as he spoke on. His gestures were still small, hands held close to his body, but he grew more fluid, his ears pointing forward more than any other direction. Victor didn’t really understand why, but he could see the way his body language changed. Yuri was rambling a little, but that was better than the choked conversations or curt statements from earlier.

“It’s all something you can think about later? The bran should be ready in another few minutes, then we can take that out to the stables and…” Yuri trailed off as Victor held up his hands, boots still dangling by their laces from one hand. 

“My clothes?”

Yuri brought his hands up, palms out toward Victor. “Right! Right, your clothes — castle?”

He looked around, expectant, but the response was little more than the crackling of the fire in the kitchen hearth. Yuri’s ear flicked to the side, embarrassment and discomfort worming its way into his stomach. “It might be a while longer before everything’s laundered. Usually everything comes back within a day, but…” He had the grace to look as embarrassed as he could manage. Were he human, he would have blushed. Fox-faced instead his nose wrinkled, his ears pressed out to the sides, his shoulders hunched again. 

Victor found it all bothersome, but what else was there to do? Victor sighed, offering up a resigned smile, waving a hand in front of his chest. “As long as I get everything back. That’s my favourite coat,” he said, lamenting with a melodramatic whine. Yuri seemed to pick up on the tone shift; he didn’t look impressed, but Victor preferred that to him closing in on himself.

After a moment, Yuri breathed out in a snort, or he simply snorted because of the shape of his muzzle. Victor chose to interpret it as a sound of amusement, resigned or otherwise. “That coat was as patched up as some of the cleaning rags around here.”

“I prefer to think of it as colourful, myself.”

Yuri tilted one ear back, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Weren’t all the patches brown?”

“Different shades of brown,” Victor said, holding up a finger as if this made his point more valid. He sighed, again aiming for dramatic over heartfelt. “None quite like the original.” He brought his finger to his chin, resting it there as his eyes examined the ceiling. “Now, if I could borrow something to keep warm on the way out to the stables…”

“Don’t be ridiculous! You’re just wearing a robe!” Yuri said before he could stop to think if he wanted to speak at all.

“A robe and a towel,” Victor said, nodding his head. “With my boots, that’ll be three individual pieces of conflicting outfits.” 

All spelling out one hell of a disaster or potential for more than a head cold, in Yuri’s opinion. His tail lashed behind him, back and forth with a life of its own as he pulled the kitchen towel off the bran bucket. “It’s stretching it to call even one of those an outfit, incomplete or otherwise.” He frowned, giving his head a shake as he made a decision. “Castle! Please bring my cloak, the one with the fur lining, and the black trousers with the drawstring waist?”

Yuri held out his arms, tail stilling behind him as he waited. He didn’t usually make requests like this for his wardrobe, but it’d save time on having to run by his rooms to pick up what he had in mind. The castle was quick to respond, this time no mistake in what magic was surging to respond to Yuri’s request. The cloak he’d worn early that morning fell down on top of his head, a pair of black trousers smacking into one hand. 

“Ooph!”

Victor jumped forward to help catch the mass of heavy fabric from which the cloak was constructed as it slid toward the floor. He laughed, pulling the cloak off Yuri and watching as he emerged, fur and hair akimbo. 

“If it’s any consolation, the same thing happened to me earlier. Are things always so agreeable around here?”

Yuri groused, thrusting the trousers out to Victor. “Usually things are much more _peaceful_. And _polite_.” The kitchen door creaked open, then _politely_ creaked shut again. Yuri crossed his arms over his chest. No further response was forthcoming.

With a shrug, Victor turned his back to Yuri and unknotted the towel at his waist, catching it on one leg lifted behind him. He belatedly realised his mistake, considering his attempt at vague modesty would have been better served by not turning the high slit to face his host. He grabbed the towel and tossed it over his shoulders with a mental shrug, leaving his boots on the floor as he stepped into the trousers. They, too, were modified to account for Yuri’s physiology, but the drawstring allowed Victor to hike them higher over his hips and tie them off, mostly eliminating the problem. Having a small opening at his lower back was inconsequential.

While Victor dressed, pulling on his boots one at a time and lacing them up with deft fingers, Yuri finished his staring contest with the door. The door had won, of course, not possessing eyes, but he liked to think the ringing silence was a nod to _his_ winning, at least for the moment. The castle was as quiet and undisruptive as Yuri was used to when he and Victor headed back for the entry hall. Victor slung the cloak over his shoulders, fumbling with the broach as they headed outside, passing through the ornately carved doors without even a token resistance.

He had a feeling if he ran around entirely nude the whole time, the castle, or its unseen attendants, wouldn’t bother limiting his access to anywhere. With the probably exception of Yuri’s suite of rooms.

Philua managed to haul himself to his feet this time, head hanging with the effort. Shaky limbs steadied out, though he still braced himself more than Victor would have liked to see. His injuries were easier to see with him standing, tracks of claw marks and bite wounds. None seemed deep.

Victor found the cloak too much of an encumbrance once they were in the stall, shrugging it off and draping it over the open half-door. The black pony stuck his head out, snorting at Victor in his blue silk bathrobe. Victor waved, giving the pony a quick, tight-lipped grin.

When he turned around to where Yuri was holding the bucket of mash while Philua ate, ears swiveling forward and back to track Makkachin walking around behind him, the grin was gone. In its place he wore a look of quiet consideration. Yuri was nothing like what he’d expected, but moreso finding Philua alive, if injured, and recovering was yet another surprise.

The idea that had been bouncing around in the back of his mind since earlier took form, clarifying into a course of action Victor planned to follow through on. 

“While you’re feeding him, I want to try something. With magic,” he said, clarifying even as he knelt and worked the laces of his boots loose. He could leave them on, but they’d slow down his movements and get in the way of what he was planning. Off they went, set by the stall door. Victor settled his feet into the fresh hay and noted what corner to avoid. It should be simple. He wasn’t planning on doing much proper outward dancing.

He bowed, ridiculous as he looked in his borrowed robe and pants, bending his knees and rocking forward onto the balls of his feet as he straightened. He flowed into a step to the right, arm lifting up to shoulder level, fingers allowed to drape. It was the start of one of his dances, a gentle introduction and invitation to pay attention. He went slower than he would for a purely human audience; for Philua’s sake, watching how he shuffled himself around with a lurch to keep Victor in his field of vision. Also for Victor’s sake, feeling the magics around him take notice of a witch making an overture toward the energies in place over the castle and surrounding estate.

Victor reached out with that sixth sense they all had, but that witches practiced honing into a fine tool, feeling the pulse of his own particular affiliation woven in with the rest. Air, fire, water, earth, wood, metal, dark, light. They were only some of the understandings the witches had about the magic around them; instances like Georgi, with his empathy, were even less well-understood. Victor ignored the questions of theory that had no place in what he attempted now, focusing on the gentle pull of magic he felt in Philua. 

Water flowed, moving around barriers, over them, under them. So Victor flowed too, fitting to the shape of his container, quieting his mind until all he heard, all he felt, was the pulse of magic all around him. He didn’t want to attract too much attention, didn’t want to call on the power he could sense waiting on the periphery of his attention. It’d be too easy to be overwhelmed, too easy to get caught up and forget to come back to the world he lived in. 

His movements were graceful, small steps and movements of his hands as he went through the motions of a familiar dance, unaccompanied by song. Magic responded to him, eddying around him like a tide called in by the moon. He could feel it, just as he could feel the magic working in Philua’s system. By the time he’d made his way to Philua’s side, more magic than he needed flowed around him, brushing against his ankles, waiting for further guidance.

He spoke to Philua in nonsense phrases, the lilt of his voice creating a melody that carried through his head, through his body. It flowed from his fingertips when he ran them over Philua’s neck, tracing firm circles and loops around the injuries there. He didn’t request the magic to act, not yet. He needed a sense of how responsive it was going to be, how willing to work with him. There were no guarantees where magic was concerned.

The melody he carried in his mind and heart kept the magic calm, waiting for direction. He shifted focus, fingers continuing to trace their circles and spirals as he stroked his hands down Philua’s neck, his shoulder, his withers, his back. The horse shivered under his touch, one ear fixed back and listening to the murmur of his voice. He kept eating after his initial pause, recognising Victor as familiar and non-threatening for all his movements were curious.

_Good_. Victor half closed his eyes, focusing on the ebb and flow of magic through him, through Philua, through the area around them. Slowly, carefully, his fingers moved toward the wound on Philua’s neck, tracing their circles and tapping, following a rhythm in his head. It was dance after a fashion: a dance he envisioned instead of acted out, pulling the magic along with him, coaxing it into shapes he desired, into the form of the spell already working on Philua. The thin strand of magic healing the horse pulsed with a gentle light he could feel if not see. 

Philua snorted, lifting his head and looking around. His skin twitched, then he shook a if beset by flies. Victor kept his hands on Philua, still dancing his fingers along, and the magic flowed without pause. He had to be careful not to allow too much magic to push through. Healing was a knife’s edge away from damaging if it went too fast without the proper guidance. Victor wasn’t a trained healer. He could amplify the spell the castle wove, but he didn’t trust himself to take control and lead it along different pathways. He was as likely to cause harm as good, and so he only let through what the first spell could accept, cutting back as the original spell started to fray. It soon settled, Philua settling along with it, the occasional itch of healing skin a minor irritant instead of the sudden onslaught of sensation.

For his part, Yuri could feel the magic react to Victor, from the moment he’d heard Victor pulling off his boots. He’d cast a curious look back his way, blinking in surprise as Victor fell into a ready position, finding it impossible to look away as Victor started moving, fluid but calculated. It should have seemed absurd, a grown man dancing to the sound of his own feet on hay, to the mastication of a horse, the snuffles of a dog intent on finding food where none was to be found. It was impossible to look away.

The magic here was so intense that it could almost be seen as it responded to Victor’s call, the movement of his body. To Yuri’s surprise he realised he could _see_ a faint aura outlining Victor’s in a soft white glow. It clung as Victor slowed, hands dancing across Philua’s coat. Pulsed brighter to the beat of his heart and the strength of the magic that moved through him as a conduit, water witch calling to the healing spell and lending strength to its mending. 

He’d never seen anything like what Victor was attempting-- no, _succeeding_ in doing now. He could feel no healing magic spell being formed by Victor, but the strength of his will, and his request, in supplementing the spell already in place. It was delicate work, reminding Yuri of what he did in his gardens, coaxing his roses to drink and thrive all year long. He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, keeping the bucket steady in his arms. Philua nudged around inside, licking and biting for the remnants of his healing treat.

_Magic_ , Yuri thought to himself. Not the magic that had frightened him when the geas around the rose had been realised. Not the magic that ached and overwhelmed here in the castle or out on its estate. _I almost forgot that magic could be wonderful._

Victor would have laughed at the idea, but he used more ice than he used liquid water, and he’d never attempted to heal so much as lend his strength to healers. Then it had been far more exhausting than this was now; nonetheless, as Victor went still, his eyes closing, he felt drained. Aching, like he did after a good set of stretches. Ones he hadn’t managed to find time to do between riding the pony to watching the rose transform to napping on the rug in the golden sitting room to eating a late breakfast with the Beast of the fantastic castle hidden away in the woods.

All that, and here he hadn’t even made it to dinner yet.

Victor patted Philua’s shoulder, checking on the healing wounds on his neck. The raw edges had calmed into the healthy pink of regrown skin. The shallowest scratches were scabbed over, following the natural order of things when it came to healing.

It was with glad exhaustion that he turned his face to Yuri, companion in this moment. Yuri’s wide eyes met his, canines showing as his mouth hung open in quiet astonishment.

“What did you just _do_?”

Victor laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t exactly know, Yuri, but wasn’t it amazing?”

Looking at the man who stood laughing at Philua’s shoulder, one hand pushing his bangs back off his face, the lingering light of whatever magic he’d been channeling making it seem like he glowed from the inside; the man who stood there in Yuri’s borrowed bathrobe, showing far too much of his chest to be decent; the man who stood barefoot and triumphant in the straw, both beautiful and ridiculous; looking at that man, Yuri felt his rabbit heart race. “Yeah,” he said, voice soft, “It _was_ pretty amazing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being a really long chapter that's been cut in half, so look forward to another update tomorrow! At the point where this ended up being forty pages long, that seemed a little... much. The pacing has been slower than I'd predicted, so I've bumped the chapter count up by one to account for this being a two-parter.
> 
> Once again, thank you to everyone who's been commenting. You never fail to make me smile! It's even more fun seeing people make guesses about what's going on and why; I promise some answers are coming, if a bit slower than I'd initially predicted. I held off on answering a few comments while working through these two chapters, my apologies! I hope you find them both entertaining. 
> 
> See you next time!


	5. in which victor cleans the ballroom, and yuri meets several koi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor was left standing in the clean, empty ballroom, wondering what, exactly, merited that kind of reaction. Wondering also why it was his dog went trailing after Yuri, leaving Victor on his own.
> 
> He shook his head, telling himself to stop wondering. It wasn’t his business. 
> 
> Only part of him whispered right on back. _What if it is?_

Yuri was glad he had the excuse of the bucket to busy his hands with holding something. It kept him from clutching at his chest trying to will his heart to slow down. He felt a pang of confused emotion jostling at his senses, a mixture of pleasure and wonder and jealousy and even, at the edge, distress. It wasn’t fair. Not fair that Victor seemed to know how to handle the magic that moved all around them, and that in the first _day_ of his arrival. Not fair that Yuri couldn’t bring himself to hate him for it. Not when he could so clearly see how radiant Victor looked in his joy for having helped a friend.

No matter that said friend was a horse. It still took Yuri’s breath away.

He shook his head, thoughts a mess chasing themselves in every direction. He was aware of Victor chattering for a while, either addressing him or the dog. Routine got Yuri back into the castle and in the kitchens, rinsing out the bran bucket in the big sink. (It was too cold to bother with using the outdoor trough by the stables.) In something of a daze he agreed that Victor would need somewhere to sleep, the rug (what rug?) wasn’t an appropriate place to keep a guest. Unless the guest liked the rug, like Makkachin. Yuri didn’t actually remember what rooms he showed him to, having turned blindly toward the door the castle had helpfully opened, a vague impression of muted colours meeting his eyes before he begged off and headed for his own rooms. There’d been some mention of dinner being taken in the kitchens, but Yuri couldn’t entirely remember.

What he did know was his routine was being shaken up even when he stood in his chambers, freshly returned from the baths, staring at the outfit laid out on his bed. Black trousers, a white tunic, and the blue brocade vest hemmed in a thin line of silver and a deeper blue: at least nothing ostentatious.

Yuri stood there, hands busy pulling his hair back into its loose queue, considering his options. He could see if he’d be served dinner in his rooms. If his wardrobe had become suspiciously difficult to open, and the clothing he’d been wearing before bathing had been whisked away without comment, that didn’t mean he needed to capitulate. Besides, unlike Victor, he’d had his robe waiting for him when he got out, the extra towel for his hair neatly set to the side.

Yuri sighed, letting his hair fall back against his fur. His glasses were back on his snout, precariously perched until he decided to clip them in place, making all of this distinctly clear. 

“I’ve never dressed up in order to eat in the kitchens before and I don’t see a reason to start _now_.” A pair of lace-up leg bracers fell down on top of the vest. Black and lined in silver, they were more of an accent piece than a necessity, especially this time of the year. 

Yuri’s tail lashed in consternation. 

“Very subtle.”

What felt suspiciously like a pat on his shoulder left him flinching away in surprise, only to whirl around and find no one there. Faint sounds as musical as laughter caught his ears seemingly in response to his reaction. 

Yuri gave in with poor grace, pulling on his clothing and taking time to properly lace up the decorative leg bracers, quietly glad the vest was laced up the front instead of relying on buttons. He had trouble properly manipulating small buttons, let alone a whole line of them just for the sake of decency. He felt better after everything was on, appreciating that most of him ended up covered. He couldn’t hide his face away, and his tail was unfortunately obvious unless he dragged a cloak around wherever he went, but he felt almost human like this. 

Victor was already in the kitchens by the time Yuri arrived. Makkachin was flopped on the floor at his feet, thumping her tail against stone and lifting her head as Yuri walked in. His attention went to her first, crouching down when she hauled herself up to come and deliver a greeting. With his arms fully covered, she was disappointed in her efforts to get in a good lick; undeterred, she attempted to do the same to his face. He managed to pull back before her tongue made contact with his cheek. The spontaneous nature of her affection, uncaring for how he looked, was a balm to a part of his soul he hadn’t even known was aching.

Victor nudged one of the kitchen stools away from the counter, watching Yuri commune with his dog. He was less reserved with Makkachin. He couldn’t say he found that surprising. Victor found it easier to deal with his dog than any one person on any given day of the week. Yuri’s preoccupation with greeting Makkachin also gave Victor time to take him in. His hair was damp, his fur seemingly less so. He’d changed into a vest that was tailored to be form fitting with a deep v-waist; it was such a contrast to the embroidered tunic from earlier that Victor was curious about the difference. 

He had to admit it was flattering either way. 

“I was pleasantly surprised to find my clothing mysteriously reappeared.” He plucked at the neck of his shirt, having left his coat in the guest room. 

Standing, Yuri adjusted his vest, tugging it down as he redirected his attention to Makkachin’s owner. The poodle yawned, circling back around and flopping down between the two stools, resting her chin on a paw. “Ah... good. I wasn’t sure if your things would have been laundered or burned.” His attempt at a joke came across as almost too flat, his laughter sounding strained. 

Victor quirked up his eyebrows, but he laughed, too. “Wow, they would have been used for dust rags first! They’re respectably patched and threadbare, burning them would have been a waste." He waved a hand in front of his face, then paused, looking thoughtful. "Unless the real concern was for any unexpected guests that rode in on me or Makkachin.”

Taking a seat on the other stool, Yuri let his shoulders relax a fraction. Victor didn’t sound serious, which seemed to mean he hadn’t taken offense at Yuri’s attempt at joking. “What kind of fleas can survive a winter like this?”

“Hmm, good question. Really drunk ones?”

Yuri snorted, reaching for a cup of water, noting the night’s spread. Two small bowls of broth and carrot, breaded meatballs (probably of poultry), and mashed potatoes. Pickled cucumber had been sliced and offered in a smaller bowl as an appetizer; Yuri reached over and plucked one out, popping it into his mouth. “What would that say about their former host?”

Victor pretended to think about it, likewise picking up one of the slices of pickled cucumber. “That they’re overly fond of taverns and not so fond of being sober, I suppose. Sounds like a common condition during the winter in this part of the country.” He chewed and swallowed, lifting his water cup up and tipping it to Yuri. “To a meal well received, and to pleasant company.”

Yuri lifted his own water glass after a moment, eyes closing as he offered something of a smile. “We thank you for this meal, though the flattery might be under scrutiny.” He couldn’t imagine he rated as pleasant company for most of the day, nor did he have many hopes that he’d be magically transformed into a steady, focused host over the next few days.

They clinked glasses over their dual absurdities, Victor unabashed, Yuri tamping down on the parts of himself that fretted over this being an elaborate insult. Even if it was, he had to endure two more days, no more. He’d handle that fine. Maybe one day he’d even handle _people_ fine again: a thought that gave him pause, stomach clenching. Maybe, but most likely not. He wouldn’t have been comfortable spending time around a creature that looked like he did. He wasn’t even sure how Victor was managing. Wasn’t it weird to him?

Victor set his glass on the counter, pulling a plate closer and serving himself. “Something on your mind?”

There obviously was, and both of them knew it, but Yuri merely pulled the second empty plate over and slopped potatoes on his plate. “Nothing worth mentioning,” he said, dismissing the potential for conversation. 

In the end, it was Victor who led them through small talk, commenting on the way the storm had stopped sometime midday. It looked like it would be a clear night; was Yuri much of a night owl? Yuri’s answers were short or stumbling where explanation was necessary, at least until he forgot why it mattered if he impressed Victor or not. Victor was happy enough to take over sharing inconsequential stories while they ate, talking about places he had seen with the troupe, about wintering over in the city again this year.

“Have you traveled much?” Victor asked, finishing off his fifth meatball.

“Not in years. I used to,” Yuri said, eyes dropping back down to examine his plate. He refused to say anything more, just as he refused to think about it. He didn’t want to miss the ease of slipping into a crowd he used to have. He didn’t want to miss his traveling companions, teacher and fellow student, now five years gone. He still wondered what had happened to them when everything had changed.

Brushing aside the old pain, he redirected the conversation to something banal. He barely paid attention, preferring to listen to the cadence of Victor’s speaking voice while they conversed over nothing of consequence. The words weren’t really important. Settling down and finding some sense of internal peace in the presence of company was important. He was almost surprised when Victor raised his arms overhead, stretching and stifling a yawn before begging pardon and heading off to bed. Time had slipped by faster than he realised.

Heading to his own rooms, Yuri shucked clothing and brushed his teeth before shrugging into his sleeping clothes and burrowing under his quilts. _Two more days_ , he thought to himself, _And all this will be over_.

He ignored the part of himself that was already feeling sad for the loss of company. He knew it’d be better this way. He sank past where dreams could haunt him, embracing the quiet dark in the face of the storm he knew would be there before long.

* * *

Victor had trouble sleeping on the too-soft mattress, beaten free of dust by unseen hands the day before. He’d dragged the mass of quilts and blankets to the rug on the floor, Makkachin dancing around him the whole time as if it were some sort of game. He supposed it was for her; the thought quirked his lips up into a smile as he shook out the blankets and made his bed. The banked fire burning away in the hearth added some scant warmth to the room, quickly enough eaten by the chill air.

He settled down, Makkachin curling up on top of the blankets at his side. It took a while for him to coax his brain into resting and not _thinking_ , turning questions over and wondering at the small mysteries that had plagued him since the night before. 

He didn’t know when he’d finally fallen asleep, listening to Makkachin’s steady breathing and the crackling of the fire, but he woke to a pounding headache and dry mouth in the grey of pre-dawn light. Makkachin had made her way over to the window, looking out with her ears canted forward, tail wagging behind her. He groaned, rolling over and feeling less stiff than he expected, head pounding like he’d spent all night drinking. Victor clutched one blanket around him as he got to his feet and shuffled toward his dog. She glanced his way once, chuffing, then returned her attention to watching the outdoors.

Beyond the walled gardens and glass greenhouses, Victor caught sight of a what might have been a deer bounding away into the woods. The sky appeared cloudless, the crisp morning air silent and restful. Snow rolled away from the castle in gentle hills, disappearing into the carefully sculpted forests of the estate, slowly gone more wild with the passage of time. 

Victor pulled the blanket tight around him, dog leaning companionably close. Circumstances and aching head aside, it was a beautiful morning.

He rubbed the middle of his forehead, breathing out in a sigh as he turned away from the window’s chill. The pressure of magic around him was worse today than it had been the day before, or he was worn down enough that he was noticing it in a different manner. Feeling slightly nauseated, he grimaced, shuffling toward the chair where half his clothing lay draped. _At least everything’s where I left it last night_ , he thought to himself, almost amused. Dressing was an ordeal, and he was thirstier than he had any right to be when he and Makkachin made their way down the stairs and toward the kitchens. He didn’t know if food might be laid out in the breakfast room, but food wasn’t a settling thought. He’d check later. Right then all he wanted was something to relieve the cotton dryness of his mouth and throat. 

Water from the sink was gulped down greedily, Victor pilfering a bowl to serve Makkachin her own bowl of water. Some light exercise outside might help drive away the miserable pain, he reasoned, or might stir an appetite when he had none.

Makkachin seemed unaffected by the heavy presence of magic around the castle. Victor envied that, watching her frolic through the snow with abandon. She calmed down as he stepped into the stables. Victor nodded to the black pony who stood half asleep in his stall. The pony flicked an ear in return, letting his head drop back down.

Man and dog moved past, seeking out Philua’s stall, expecting to also find him resting. Instead they found the bay horse lipping Yuri’s sleeve, looking more lively in spite of the visibility of his healing wounds. Yuri pushed his nose away, applying more salve to the injuries on Philua’s haunches. Philua dropped his head down and watched Yuri’s tail, opening his mouth and reaching out slowly to try and capture a mouthful, feeling puckish with his returning energy.

“You’re up early,” he said, noting with surprise that Yuri seemed caught off guard to hear Victor talking from the door of the stall. Victor and Makkachin hadn’t been taking care to be quiet as they walked. He rallied a smile, strained from the persistent headache. “How’s he doing?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Yuri said from where he pressed against Philua’s haunches, having turned his head abruptly at the sound of Victor’s voice. He shook off the surprise in the same moment, patting the horse with his clean hand. “I figured I’d stop in to see how he was doing. Whatever you helped with yesterday has sped up his healing. He doesn’t really need this,” he added, lifting the container of salve, “But I like to believe it’s soothing.”

Philua, deprived of a tail to yank on, shook his head and neck before snorting, ears perked forward and focused on Victor. He nickered, hopeful for another treat. Victor obliged in walking closer and holding out the flat of his hand, allowing the horse to lip and nuzzle at his fingers, leaving a smattering of saliva in his wake. No treats in evidence, he dropped his head away with a disapproving snort.

“He seems to be feeling better.” He moved his hand away from the horse’s nose. “He’s a brat, you know. He was reaching for your tail right before we got here.”

Yuri blinked, opening his mouth and huffing out a small sound of amusement. “I know. He’s been trying all morning. Almost got me the first time. Now it’s a game.” His tail swung side to side, demonstrating his mastery of his attached lure. “One he’s intent on winning, and I’m equally intent on him losing.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Aren’t you full of surprises.”

“Like what? Not wanting to get bit?” Yuri capped the bottle of salve, using a handkerchief to clean his hand. The look he shot Victor’s way was openly incredulous.

“Playing keep away with your tail in the first place. It’s cute.”

Yuri’s ears flicked forward, then back, his chin tucking in with a grunt. Victor was teasing, he knew that, but he couldn’t hear the _mockery_ he expected in his voice. He started forward, said tail thwapping against Victor’s knees as he passed by. “Not cute.”

“Wow! No, not cute at all.” Victor trailed after him, rubbing vaguely at his knee, trying not to smile. He could have tried pouting, but he frankly didn’t know Yuri anywhere near well enough to chance it. Best to keep things simple and straightforward. “More like adorable.”

Simple and straightforward indeed.

Yuri’s shoulders hunched as he looked back at Victor over his shoulder. “Huh?” He drew out the vowel in his surprise. He lifted a hand in front of his face, the other tucking his dirty handkerchief inside his sleeve. “No, no, no, no, no. Will you stop it? It’s too early in the morning for jests like this!”

Who was jesting? Victor laughed, waving his own hand in front of his chest, relenting. Yuri clearly didn’t want to hear it, and Victor supposed for the sake of their short coexistence, he could restrain himself for now. “Okay, okay, I’ll remember, no compliments before sunrise.”

Yuri started to huff, Victor heading it off by falling in step with him and changing topics. “You said you couldn’t sleep last night. Did you rest at all? I tossed and turned forever before I finally passed out.” He shrugged, eyes sliding toward Yuri. The fox man’s face was turned toward him, light catching on the rim of his glasses. Victor wondered at how they stayed so perfectly in place when Yuri’s ears were significantly higher up on his head than where the sides of his glasses disappeared into fur.

“I did, thank you. I just…” He trailed off, not sure about admitting any of this. Did it really matter? “I felt restless. It’s easier to get up and move around than lie there unable to sleep.”

The admission earned a hum of acknowledgement from Victor. “I’m surprised either of us could with how it feels around here. You say this is part of the, what did you call it… tide! It was tide, I know it.” Pleased with himself, he shoved his hands in his pockets and continued speaking. “You can feel how the magic’s tangled up here, can’t you?”

Yuri wasn’t even sure what metaphor Victor was concocting, giving him a puzzled look and as much of a frown as he could manage. He held the door open, distracted, as Victor moved into the castle at his heels. “I don’t know what you mean by tangled, no. I just know it’s here and the pressure’s building again.”

“Again?” Victor pulled off his boots, setting them carefully to the side. Unless the castle decided to get tricky again, he figured they’d stay where they were. Brushing the snow clinging to Makkachin’s hair off in the entryway, he waited for any further explanation.

“Again,” Yuri said, repeating himself with a grim tone. “Whatever causes this releases everything on the new moon. I said that yesterday, didn’t I?”

Victor straightened up, flicking drops of cold water from his fingers. “You might have. Yesterday’s a bit of a blur.” 

“I… suppose that make sense.” He relented with poor grace, but he was still waiting for Victor to join him before turning down the hall. “Are you hungry?”

In truth, his head was still pounding and he barely felt any more friendly toward food than he had earlier, but Victor flashed Yuri a brief lived smile. “Tea would be even better.”

Yuri returned his smile, if only for a moment. “What’s breakfast without tea?”

A good question, and one neither of them had to answer. Victor was delighted to find cubed sugar in a small tray in the breakfast room, plucking one up to set on his saucer as he poured tea for himself, then for Yuri after gesturing toward it with a quirk of his eyebrow. The dark bread served with jam and fresh butter smelled lovely, but he still felt queasy. Sitting down and holding his tea under his nose, he breathed in, eyes closing in pleasure. This was a good black tea. His eyes opened again as Yuri snuck Makkachin part of a bread bun, the man clearly attempting to take advantage of the slip in Victor’s attention.

He closed his eyes again, amused. As long as Makkachin wasn’t wolfing down anything too big for her to swallow, he didn’t mind. 

He settled back in his chair, picking up his sugarcube and biting down on it, holding it between his teeth. His tea was barely cool enough to drink without scalding himself, but the delicious heat that flooded his mouth as he closed his lips around the rim of the cup, the burst of sweetness as the sugarcube started to dissolve, was an intoxication all its own. Almost strong enough to drive back his headache; a kind of morning magic, that was tea. He made a small noise of pleasure, taking another sip of tea with the dissolving sugarcube still held in his teeth.

His eyes slit open again as the idea forming in the back of his mind gained clarity. He leaned forward, setting down his teacup and swallowing the sugarcube after two experimental chews. He seemed oblivious to the way Yuri both was and wasn’t looking his way, one ear canted toward him, twitching as he smacked his lips.

“Yuri, does the castle have anything like a dance studio?”

Yuri was a beat late responding, shaking himself out of a haze induced by watching Victor take his tea in an entirely too distracting manner. “Huh? I mean, not really. What were you looking for?”

Any space with a decent, level floor was the actual answer, preferably wood instead of stone. Victor leaned forward on his elbows, eyes bright in spite of the ache in his head. “Anywhere with wooden floors and room to move will do.”

Scratching at the fur covering his cheek, Yuri tried to think of where might best fit those requirements. “There’s the golden room, I guess. Or the bottom floor of the library?” He dropped his hand away from his face, fingers curling into a triumphant fist as his ears perked forward, eyes looking directly into Victor’s. “The ballroom! It’s dusty, but the floors are all wood, and there’s nothing to run into.”

“I expect there wouldn’t be,” Victor said, wry, turning the idea over in his head. It was far more room than he needed, but if Yuri couldn’t think of a smaller room that would do, why not? It’d been awhile since he’d been dancing in any ballroom, and he wasn’t strictly looking for someplace to practice. At least not to practice the performance side of his work.

“Would you mind showing me there after breakfast?”

“I don’t mind, but do you mind me asking why?”

Victor leaned back, picking up his teacup. “Not at all.” He tipped it toward Yuri with a private sort of smile gracing his lips. “I want to see if I can’t dance this headache of mine away.”

* * *

The ballroom was dusty and chill, light streaming in through snow-frosted windows and doors along two of the ballroom’s walls. Golden frescoes glinted through layers of dust from where they hung on the walls, paint in once vibrant colours dimmed by the passing of time. It was one of the most stark examples of how unlived in this castle really was that Victor had yet to run into. Yuri’s ears slowly tipped back, lower and lower, until they were pressed against his skull in embarrassment. There was no reason for him to have asked the castle to keep this room in good condition; Yuri could count on one hand the number of times he’d stepped in here over the last five years.

In fact, this made the fifth time. He glanced to Victor, trying to study his face and body posture for some hint of what the other man thought. Victor didn’t make himself easy to read, knuckle of his index finger resting against his chin while he regarded the open space. His expression was neutral, albeit thoughtful; somehow less animated than Yuri had come to expect in their day and a morning of cohabitation.

“I’m sorry about the dust, I’m never in here and I didn’t think…”

Victor blinked, hand dropping away from his face as he turned to look at Yuri. He registered Yuri’s words a heartbeat after, lips quirking up into a half smile. “You didn’t think you’d have company. Or be hosting a ball anytime soon. Why else keep the ballroom pristine?”

Yuri looked away, wringing his hands without being fully aware of it. “It didn’t seem important, that’s all.”

He supposed he could understand, though Victor, preferring things to be tidy, might have been the sort to ask anyway. Still, his silence hadn’t been judgment on Yuri’s decisions as master of the castle. Surveying what he had to work with, he was inspired.

Clapping his hands together, he laughed, startling Makkachin as much as Yuri. “Perfect! Yuri, help me haul water here? It doesn’t need to be hot, though if it is, all the better.”

Wondering what in the world Victor was thinking, Yuri gave in to morbid curiosity and nodded. “There’s a bathroom nearby. I think the faucet’s high enough that we can fit one of the smaller buckets underneath.”

Bouncing up onto the balls of his feet, Victor nodded, beaming at Yuri like he was sharing some incredible, never before heard wisdom.

It felt nice, even if it was anything _but_ brilliant. Victor was a sight too charming for his own good, and Yuri would do well to remember that. Not that he had to remember for long. Two more nights. A day and a half.

His life would certainly be less odd, he decided, carting his second bucket of water back to the ballroom with Makkachin keeping pace at his side. Victor directed him to upend the water on the floor just as he had with the first two buckets they’d brought in; Victor was busy squeezing a lemon in his hand, juices welling up and flowing over his palm and fingers to gush and drip down on the splattered water below.

“I’m still telling you I feel like you’re supposed to sweep before you get mopping,” he pointed out, hefting the bucket back up to rest against his shoulder. Back in one of his embroidered tunics, he felt much more comfortable in his own skin again. “Do you even have a mop? Do _I_ even own a mop?” he asked no one in particular, free hand resting on his hip.

Victor shook his wrist, flicking off lemon juice. He tossed the remainder of the lemon into his own bucket, idly licking a stray droplet running down the heel of his hand. “That’s a question I can’t answer, but I’ll kindly remind you I never mentioned anything about mopping.” Kneeling down, he rinsed his lemon juice covered hand off in the water mess on the floor. He stood again, rolling his pants up higher on his calves. “I’m a dance witch, not a mop witch.” 

Yuri snorted, carefully stepping around the puddle spread across the wood floor. “There’s no such thing as mop witches.” He leaned over to snag Victor’s abandoned bucket.

“Not that we know, but the world is a vastly more surprising place than either you or I have dreamed of, Yuri.” Victor smiled, stepping into their man-made puddle, sweeping into a low bow in Yuri’s direction. “As I was saying, I’m a dance witch. I’m not planning on mopping. I plan on _dancing_.”

Already feeling embarrassed (and a little irritated) with the bow, elegantly delivered as it had been, Yuri craned his head one direction, than the other. “In the middle of a puddle you insisted on making on the floor in a dusty, neglected ballroom?”

“ _Exactly_ ,” he said, straightening. The water barely wet his feet, but it was enough. Victor could already feel the magic around them stirring, almost curious. Emotion wasn’t something he generally assigned to magic itself, though there was plenty involved; right now he had the uncanny impression of cat rubbing against his ankles, purring, waiting for his next move.

He smiled, more teeth than joy. His head pounding, he moved into another light stretch, breathing in deep, then out slow. “Would you mind seeing if you can get any of the windows or doors open?”

Yuri paused in his walk back toward the interior doors, throwing a disbelieving look toward Victor. Looking away again as he decided that Victor’s pants were a little too flattering when he was stretching out his legs like _that_. “To what, help you freeze yourself to death inside? No thanks. I don’t even know how you talked me into helping with this nonsense in the first place.”

Still holding his stretch, Victor looked at Yuri between his legs, hands around one ankle. Oh, he definitely felt that in his hamstring. “By asking nicely.” He slowly straightened, then stretched out toward his other leg, locking his hands around his ankle. “How about this? You can watch and make sure I don’t freeze myself in the process of all this, and we get at least two open windows.”

“I’m not seeing how this is a relevant bargain you can make.”

Victor smiled, expression largely hidden by his leg. His voice didn’t disguise his edge of amusement. “What if I tell you this is all to try and help with that backup of magic in the castle?”

“I’d say you were full of…” Yuri stopped himself, hands clutching the handles of the buckets tight. He knew if he could see his skin under the fur, his knuckles would be white, bloodless. “How is splashing around in a puddle in the ballroom going to help with anything more than, than, I don’t know! Making you look ridiculous and probably landing you in a sickbed?” He lifted both buckets, holding them out to his sides as he invited Victor to try and explain his logic as logical and not a fabrication of utter nonsense.

Victor released his hold on his leg, straightening slowly, bringing his arms up overhead and carefully rolling his neck. Shaking out his legs, he turned around, facing Yuri. “Watch me. It’ll be easier to show you than explain.”

Yuri clenched his jaw shut, snorting sharply through his nose. He didn’t make a move for the windows, but neither did Victor. Victor maintained eye contact with Yuri, shifting his weight until he was balanced on one leg, extending his other to the side, toes pointed toward the floor. A low sweep of his foot cut the surface of the water, sending a ripple through the puddle. His arms, still held overhead, came down to shoulder level; he shifted one shoulder back, the other forward, extending his arm. Offering his hand to Yuri across the meters that separated them.

Yuri felt himself stop breathing for a moment, caught in that blue gaze. He almost took a step forward, toward that invitation, consequences be damned. He managed to stay still, trembling, and it was as Victor lowered his head and spun off to the side that he finally drew in air.

In so many other circumstances, that involuntary reaction, felt so strongly, would have been enough to send him close to running away. Yuri preferred to confront things on his own terms, as much in his control as he could manage. Victor wasn’t like that. Victor was surprising, and that was exciting as well as frightening. It made Victor impossible to look away from, even as he seemed more like an errant child dancing through a puddle on the street at first than an adult witch working through a spell.

He felt the precise moment where the magic went from passive to active in its response to Victor’s movements. It was strange, this silent dance, no music or tempo or metronome counting time. Just the sound of Victor’s feet as they splashed down or slid through the water, daring himself not to slip with every step and spin and kick. Just the sound of his breathing, exhaling as he moved down, skimming his fingers over the surface of the water. Rising and kicking out, the water reacting, swirling away from him and across the floor. The subtle glow that collected around Victor’s ankles, outlining his feet, flowing out into the water. 

The water danced with Victor, swaying and swirling over wooden floor, sweeping up dust and dirt and detritus as it went. Victor was focused on his dance and the manipulation and guidance of the water and the magic that hummed within it.

Victor was captivating. Even when Yuri backed up, leaving damp paw-prints behind, he found it difficult to look away. He didn’t want to, not when watching Victor dance, feeling the magic move and sway and swirl along with him, making its own sort of music, one Yuri felt rather than heard. 

The whole of it was absurd, and as Yuri finally cracked open a door with one fumbling motion, he saw Victor’s eyes flit his way, followed by the ghost of a smile. Water swirled at his feet, then moved away, flowing like a living thing out the door, carrying dirt and grime and debris along with the lingering scent of lemon.

Victor was left standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed in front of him, hands open and facing his shoulders, fingers splayed. He was breathing hard, the exertion of channeling that overflow of magic and directing the water without letting it chill down to ice, his preferred form to work with, left him feeling jittery. He felt like he’d run a marathon when all he’d gotten through was a single run through of a familiar dance, adapted to an entirely new purpose. He dropped his arms out of their position, rubbing at the back of his neck as he surveyed the ballroom.

It was remarkable what could be accomplished with enough magic on hand, where he didn’t have only his personal reserves to rely on. The inlaid frescoes on the walls, the floors, even the lower windows were all cleaner, colours coming through bright, gold glittering in the light slanting in through the windows. More surprisingly, they were all dry. 

Yuri stared at him from by the open door out into the snowy landscape of the winter-bound gardens. Even with the magic no longer flowing through him, Victor seemed to fill the space around him, looming larger than life. All before he turned bright eyes on Yuri, breaking into a smile.

“Can you feel it?” He gestured around, walking toward Yuri with a bounce in his step that had been lacking earlier in the morning.

Yuri was tempted to agree despite having no idea what Victor was talking about. “Maybe? Do you always take care of spring cleaning like this?”

“Maybe?” Victor’s tease was spontaneous, winking with a grin as he came to a stop in front of Yuri. He seemed inured to the cold coming in through the door. “No, I don’t. It wouldn’t be worth the energy most the time. What you can manage through traditional work should be done traditionally. Or mechanically.” Technology was more than capable of things people had once thought only magic could accomplish. Certainly even the castle demonstrated some of the conflict that could happen when different energy sources came into contact, but it wasn’t usually this difficult. “Here is a different matter altogether. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is this!”

Victor tapped on his forehead, waiting for Yuri to react. 

Yuri blinked, one ear perking forward, the other turning to the side. “Your… forehead?”

“My headache. The pressure here, what we woke up with this morning? It’s let up. Yuri, giving the magic direction helped relieve some of the pressure!” He clapped his hands together, eyes shining with pleasure at finding a little piece of the puzzle here had an answer, if not a full solution. “I don’t know what causes it to build up here until it’s this overwhelming, but if you give it a nudge, it can find a way out!”

Yuri wanted to be excited. His ears had both perked forward, attention acutely focused on Victor, and Victor’s pleasure at his temporary solution. Only that was the problem: Yuri knew it was temporary, and he wasn’t, he didn’t… he was a water witch, but he tended to _gardens_. He hadn’t danced in five years, and never with Victor’s skill, manipulating magic with a thought and the extension of his motion. It was breathtaking, astounding, incredible.

And the one who could manage it was leaving. Yuri had no mistaken belief in his ability to produce even vaguely similar results. Still, he didn’t want to dim Victor’s enthusiasm out of hand.

He breathed out, canines visible as his ears drooped a little, nodding. “You’re right, it’s… not as overwhelming as it usually is.” Yuri looked off to the side, out through the open glass door. The snow by the door was no longer pristine, not after Victor had directed the water outside, but beyond where it touched, the snow sat undisturbed. “It’ll probably build up again over the day, but it’s nice to know things like this might have an effect.”

Victor felt his shoulders relax, watching Yuri’s face. It continued to be strange to read both human and canine emotions there on his fox’s face, but the regret he saw would never be found on a true fox. For a moment, he wanted to reach out, ruffle the hair on Yuri’s head. Ruffle his fur at his cheeks like he did with Makkachin, when she was distracted by the market food she wasn’t allowed to touch.

“The more you know,” he said, agreeable enough. He stepped past Yuri, reaching out to catch the handle and close the door. “Tell me, Yuri. Have you ever danced before?”

Yuri froze, eyes going wide. His heart beat too loud in his ears, his breath catching in his throat. He did, of course he knew, but dancing, dancing had…

“No.” He crouched, grabbing the handles of the buckets and brushing past Victor, striding across the ballroom. “I have to go.” He was just shy of breaking out in a run, shaking, a bitter, metallic taste burning the back of his tongue. He had to get out of here. Had to get away from Victor and his brightness and the answers he was proposing. Get away from the gibbering panic in the back of his mind. Watching Victor dance was fine, wonderful, even. With this much magic around, imagining doing the same himself? It left his stomach twisting into a cold knot.

Victor was left standing in the clean, empty ballroom, wondering what, exactly, merited that kind of reaction. Wondering also why it was his dog went trailing after Yuri, leaving Victor on his own.

He shook his head, telling himself to stop wondering. It wasn’t his business. 

Only part of him whispered right on back. _What if it is?_

* * *

Victor didn’t see Yuri for the rest of the day. Makkachin showed up again after an hour or two, looking for food and smelling like flowers. The dirt had come out of her paws, but it was an interesting insight. Victor wasn’t allowed entry, but his dog was.

“Must have rolling in flower petals for you to come back smelling like dirt and roses!” He laughed and called her after him as he sprinted down the hall, figuring dignity didn’t have much of a place in the face of time to fill and sanctioned exploration of the castle to be done. He and Makkachin played a game of tag (he always lost) down the main corridors, opening doors that gave under his hand and poking heads into all kinds of rooms. Many were dusty, unlived in and dark but for when the witchlights hung overhead or mounted on the walls reacted to his presence. None of the electrical lights worked, but he didn’t expect they would. He’d managed to lessen the blockage on magic streaming in, not eliminate it wholesale.

His favourite rooms were a bizarre collection of curiosities. One was a room lined fully in mirrors, with a floor of highly polished metal that had gone dim under years-worth of accumulated grime. The ceilings reflected the witchlight hung in an elaborate crystal chandelier in the middle of the vaulted ceiling, twinkling down on him and reflected back from every angle. There were two windows in this room. Victor liked that part best of all, perching briefly on the deep windowsills to stare out at the estate rolling away in the distance.

Leaving little more than footprints in the dust behind, he and Makkachin had gone on. Bedchambers further out than the one he’d been allotted each followed a theme: some were colour coded, others animal in nature. A room of swans was graced was followed by one that deified the milk cow; hounds chased hares, but never a fox. No room was themed after the reds and whites, or blacks and whites, of a fox.

The most curious bedchamber he found had a floor made of glass. He stepped carefully onto the smooth expanse of glass set into the floor, feeling the faint thrum of preservation spells at work underfoot. It was a warm brush against the soles of his feet, ticklish.

It took him a moment to recognise that water flowed underneath the glass, giving him and Makkachin a clear view down on a water landscape. Some long-forgotten naturalist had sculpted an underwater garden, stones placed deliberately. Coloured glass ornamentation nestled in the sands and silk plants twisted in a gentle current. The algae growing around the edges of the tank was respectable but under control; he wondered why until Makkachin slammed her paws down on the glass with an excited gahf. He glanced down, eyes catching sight of a gold and white tail as its own swam out of sight.

Fish! He grinned, looping an arm over Makkachin’s shoulders. Retreating to the edge of the glass near the bed he sat crouched with Makkachin, watching in wonder as elegant, sluggish forms of the fish within slowly reemerged. They were beautiful, mottled in black, cream, gold, white, blue. No two fish looked quite the same. Something about their mouths reminded him vaguely of carp, though he couldn’t remember seeing carp in colours like these before in his life.

As if he’d ever seen carp anywhere other than the fish market.

He sat with his dog, entranced for a good while before he lifted his head and marked the length of shadows against the snow outside. He was responsible for dinner tonight, wasn’t he? 

He washed up in the kitchens, rolling up the sleeves of his plain tunic and checking on the supplies procured overnight. Sure enough, the list of things he’d politely requested could be found between the cold room for uncured meats and the dry goods in the pantry. The lamb was even wrapped in butcher’s paper, causing Victor to frown. Why would a magic castle have anything wrapped in butcher’s paper? 

He shook off the oddity, finding the onions, canned tomatoes, and an impressive assortment of dried spices. He stoked the fire in the wood-burning oven, adding another log before closing the front and investigating for skewers and an iron pan of the right size. Poking around in cupboards and eyeing the hanging supplies produced the knife and cutting board he also needed; Makkachin curled herself up in front of the kitchen fire proper, settling into a light snooze as Victor worked.

He couldn’t make himself believe he was close to home. The kitchen was too large, meant to handle feeding dozens of people instead of the grand total of two currently in residence. There were echoes as he chopped and diced and stoked the fire; the sizzling of the sauce and the hiss of coals he raked out of the hearth to use for cooking the lamb and onion on their skewers. The scent of everything cooking was nostalgic, reminding him of meals with the troupe over the years, feast and famine both. He enjoyed a good meal, but in the end, the company had always been more precious.

Stirring the sauce, he mulled over how that hadn’t always seemed obvious to him. How even now, he was finding that perhaps it wasn’t quite enough. The thought stung enough that he frowned, feeling disloyal for any part of him that itched for something different. What was different anyway? They were working until they were cleared for travel visas out of this country. Yura would be reunited with his grandfather, and the rest of them would either continue on with Yakov or find work elsewhere.

He sighed, smiling down into the bubbling sauce and pulling it off the heat. He shouldn’t borrow tomorrow’s trouble today. He still had to get back to the troupe. 

What did Yuri have to get back to? Surely his life wasn’t defined by the endless, empty rooms of this castle?

“No offense,” he said, nodding toward the hearth. “You’re a lovely castle. Just a bit lonely with all those empty spaces.”

Makkachin dozed on, leaving Victor unaware of Yuri’s own halting arrival, lingering outside the door to the kitchen proper. He’d smelled what was cooking, suspecting the castle was in part to blame (he never smelled anything else as clearly as he did the roasting lamb), but galled into descending from his rooms regardless. He’d been avoiding Victor all day, calming himself in the greenhouses working with his flowers. The blue rose was still a tightly closed bud, soil just the right degree of damp. Yuri wondered how long it would be before it started to open its bloom, and what colour that bloom could possibly be.

Makkachin had been a congenial companion for a while, until he ushered her back to the castle proper, visiting the lavatory before heading back to his mediation among his roses. He remembered enough to feed Philua his bran mixture, taking the long way around the castle rather than risk running into Victor inside. It was immature and unworthy, but he felt better for the avoidance. Victor was unsettling him without trying. Yuri’s heart didn’t need the aches and confusion, not over a guest fated to leave his home.

He wasn’t ungracious enough to go back on his word about dinner, and besides, whatever Victor was cooking smelled delicious. He hadn’t expected to hear him talking, let alone addressing the castle. Yuri’s hand hovered over the door handle, not quite able to bring himself to take it in hand and turn.

Victor’s voice moved around the room, trailing behind Victor as he went about serving two plates. “There aren’t any family portraits,” he said, falling into his one sided conversation with the castle. “None that I could find. There’s nothing here that really feels like a home, no real personal touches, nothing at all. I don’t know how your master manages it.” Living in a castle that was partially a prison. “He’s a little… jumpy, but that’s no reason for someone to be forced to live alone.”

Yuri jerked his head back, not sure how to feel. The guilt at eavesdropping warred with the confusion of Victor not quite understanding, and Yuri not quite wanting him to know. He thought about turning around and leaving, but even as he did, the door opened itself and he felt a firm _push_ against his lower back. He stumbled forward into the kitchen, catching himself and standing up straight, adjusting his tunic.

“Good evening,” he said, managing a nod in Victor’s direction he hoped looked more stately than confused. 

“Good evening, Yuri!” Victor flashed him a ready smile, holding up the plates he carried. “Great timing! Everything just finished.” He started for the central counter with its stools, setting their plates on either side of the same corner as the night before. “Did you want anything more than water? I saw there was cider in the pantry.” He perked up, arching his eyebrows in elegant question when he looked back in Yuri’s direction. “Are we allowed?”

Yuri nodded his head once, though he held his hand up right after. “You’re welcome to indulge, but I’ll…” He reconsidered, hand falling back to his side. “Only have a mug’s worth for the night, thank you.”

Victor regarded him curiously, but he didn’t ask about the change in heart. He slipped back into the pantry and emerged triumphant with the large jug of cider held up in front of him. He set it on the table, pulling out a small knife from his belt. Inserting the knife at an angle, Victor pressed down until he was able to turn the knife and cork along with it. He showed Yuri the cork after he had it out, pulling it off his knife with a grin.

Yuri looked amused, but polite. He wasn’t laughing when he said, “Well done. In the future, we do have a corkscrew here. I think it’s kept in the drawer at the near end of that counter.” He nodded his head toward the drawer in question, still managing to look polite in his amusement. If Victor hadn’t caught sight of the gentle wag of Yuri’s tail, he might have even been fooled.

As it was, he laughed anyway. “Consider it dinner and a show tonight then. Where do you keep the mugs?”

Yuri looked away, saving himself from having to visibly react to this easy-going joviality. Dinner and a show sounded almost inappropriate. Too intimate, and he didn’t know what to make of it. “In the cupboard right there. There are glasses in the next one over. The mugs in that one have handles.” For unspoken reasons, he preferred using cups with handles. They were easier for him to manipulate, unlike forks and knives and spoons. Even chopsticks were a challenge, but he’d learned to manage those over the years.

He sincerely hoped they weren’t supposed to elegantly nibble on the kebabs. There was no way he’d look even close to elegant. In fact, he was willing to bet he’d look ridiculous making the attempt.

Victor returned with the cider, setting a ceramic mug in front of Yuri. He picked up another two and headed to the sink, trusting the water was still drinkable from last night. He’d have to remember to ask what kept the pipes from freezing up. He’d had to deal with some plumbing issues with his magic before (it was both amazing and also unsurprising what people would be willing to pay to have done for them), but finding a successful spell or proper insulation to keep pipes from freezing and bursting? Talk about convenient.

He set the water in front of Yuri too, hooking his foot around his stool and dragging it out so he could sit, making a grand gesture over their meal. “Dinner is served,” he said, sitting up straight a moment after with widening eyes. He’d forgotten the bread!

Even as the thought occurred, a loaf bounced off the counter between them. Makkachin woke at the scrape of the legs of Victor’s stool against the stone floor, reaching out and catching the still warm loaf before it tumbled right off the side. Yuri watched him, mouth partly open, ears perked forward. This time he wasn’t disguising his amusement.

“The castle never forgets about the bread.” He lifted his hands, palm up, in a small shrug. 

“Hah, right. In that case, thank you, Castle. I’m glad at least one of us remembered.”

What almost felt like a hand brushed over his hair, ruffling it lightly. Victor startled, lifting his hands to his head, but as quickly as the sensation had come over him, it was gone again. He blinked, dismissing it as another quirk of the magic here, then settled in. 

To Yuri’s relief, Victor pulled the chunks of lamb and onion off the skewer, eating them individually by hand. The fact Victor kept his observations of Yuri restrained to glances and looks from the corner of his eye helped assuage some of Yuri’s reluctance to be eating around anyone else. He picked his own lamb off the skewer, biting into the sauce-laden chunk with the teeth on the side of his mouth, surprised as the mixture of flavours hit his tongue.

“This is good,” he said, looking to Victor in surprise. Belatedly he realised how rude that’d seem, but Victor didn’t seem to mind his surprise. If anything, from the way he looked when he turned the full force of his attention on Yuri, he was pleased.

“It’s one of the dishes I manage pretty well. The secret is in not overcooking the lamb and making sure you test the sauce along the way.” He grinned, picking up another piece of lamb for himself and popping it into his mouth.

Makkachin wandered over, nosing at Victor’s hip. He smiled, ruffling the fur on her head and sliding off the stool. He collected a bowl of smaller cubed lamb, left unflavoured, and set it down next to the bucket of fresh water for Makkachin. 

It proved to be another fairly pleasant meal, Victor showing as much enthusiasm for eating as Yuri felt. He gradually became less self aware of his awkward, canine way of chewing, spared even needing to converse overmuch as Victor recounted his version of exploring the castle. Victor asked questions about this room or that room, prompting Yuri into replies that grew less stilted as the meal passed. He sipped at water and cider in turns, before he fell into nursing his cider with small laps of his tongue down into the mouth of the mug as he held it up. Victor was polite enough not to comment on the peculiarities.

Victor had been surprisingly polite about many of Yuri’s physical peculiarities. He wasn’t sure he trusted that silence, but he noticed Victor observing him and nodding, a small quirk of his lips and a shrug the only answer he gave to Yuri’s furtive pauses. So Victor noticed - of course he noticed - but he wasn’t drawing attention to any of it.

Yuri opted to ignore the way his tail wagged at the thought, white tip brushing against the stone floor. Tried to shut all the little voices clamouring for attention over what he should worry about next down, finally succeeding when Victor’s voice cut through.

“— mottled gold and white and black fish was swimming right beneath where we stood!”

“What?” He lowered his mug of cider, blinking at Victor and flicking his ears forward. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch where you were?”

Victor smiled, lashes lowering until he was regarding Yuri through them. “If I’m boring you, Yuri, it’s fine to say so. I won’t be offended. Especially since I don’t actually think you’re fascinated by me talking about what I saw in your castle.”

Yuri set down his mug, vehemently shaking his head. “No, I’m not bored! Just distracted. The cider’s better than I thought. You were saying something about fish?”

He watched Yuri for a beat longer before he straightened up, lifting his mug and tipping it toward Yuri. “The cider _is_ delicious. Anyway, there were fish under the floor of this one bedchamber. I assume you know the one?”

Yuri gave Victor a blank stare. “What do you mean, under the floor?” What kind of nonsense was he talking about? More importantly, what hadn’t Victor gotten into?

 _My rooms and the greenhouse, from the sounds of it_.

Victor’s look shifted from curious to disbelieving. “How long have you been here and you’ve never seen the fish?” He set down his mug and fixed Yuri with a look. “Yuri. I’m showing you after breakfast tomorrow. I have a feeling the whole room is attached to one of the reflection pools outside, the ones not quite buried under the ice? Otherwise I don’t know how they have water flowing in, but they do.” Victor smiled, lifting his mug once more. “I’ll show you the beautiful fish you didn’t know you had, and we can figure out how it works together.”

Yuri snorted, but the whole thing sounded almost… fun. Innocent, markedly lacking in chaos, and thankfully far removed from topics like dance or loneliness.

A loneliness he refused to acknowledge, coiled around his heart.

He picked up his mug and held it out to Victor. Clinking mugs, he gave him a noble nod of his overlarge, furry head. “Fine. To beautiful fish and glass floor mysteries in the morning.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Victor grinned, and true to his word, drank. “To tomorrow and everything it will bring.”

Words he might eventually come to regret.

* * *

His headache was back in full force the next morning, leaving Victor moving sluggishly as he headed down the stairs and to the breakfast room. Yuri wasn’t in evidence, possibly out with Philua again. Victor briefly considered bundling up and hauling himself out to the stables, but the pounding in his head pointed him toward the empty ballroom.

The day before he’d channeled magic through water and his natural affinity for the element, cleaning the whole of the room in an unorthodox manner. It would have been a prodigious waste of magic in most any other location, but here it was barely allowing for some of the backed up magic to find an outlet.

Today he wanted to do something simple, unlikely to cause too much mischief. Victor stretched and considered the dances he knew, all part of how he called magic to himself and encouraged it to another purpose. He knew a rain spell that could be tweaked for snow, though it would be markedly unnecessary for any more snow to join what had already fallen so far this winter.

He focused inward, standing in the middle of the ballroom and picturing what he wanted in his mind’s eye. He joined the image with his desire, combining mind and heart as he started to move. It was always more difficult without music or song, or even a beat maintained by Yakov off to the side. Victor knew he didn’t need it, but part of him missed the music that came from outside himself, complementing the way the magic would sing as it responded to his call.

He poured himself into the dance, ignoring the headache as he traded one pain for the pleasant aches of pushing himself to different limits, calling on magic that responded too eagerly, trying to overwhelm his careful control. He spun around, calling for snow; asking for the air itself to shed water, to condense and freeze and _snow_ over the castle. Spreading out his awareness, his desire, as he danced on, crafting the spell with his movement. Binding the magic to his pattern, dictated from the map laid out in his mind.

He held onto the spell he’d woven until he came to a stop, down on one knee, hands cupped in front of him. Opened his palms, and cut the ties that bound him to the spell, feeling it settle in, lifting the magic and giving it a path down which to flow.

It was a lovely morning as the power coalesced, the water in the cool skies overhead pulled into existence, sent drifting down as lazy, opulent snowflakes. Hundreds and thousands of snowflakes falling from a cloudless sky, sunlight cutting through their gentle flurry. Yuri had felt the magic being worked, but as he left the stable, he was startled by the spectacle of falling snow. He held a hand out in wonder, catching one of the drifting flakes after a few minutes. 

“Magic, huh.” Yuri shook his head, feeling oddly light as he continued on toward the main castle.

Victor met him in the breakfast room, freshly showered. He flashed Yuri a smile as he helped himself to a slice of bread and picked up the jam to bring it to the table. “Good morning, Yuri. How’s Philua doing?”

Yuri flicked an ear, ceasing his discrete lapping at the warm tea in his cup. “He’s healing well. I’d hesitate to ask him to travel back with you tomorrow, but I can send him along once he’s fully recovered.”

Victor waved his hand as he bit into his bread, chewing and swallowing. “Yes, that’s fine. I’m glad he’s continuing to improve.” He held up his own teacup, saluting Yuri. “Thank you for your continued hospitality.”

Yuri chose not to respond past a grunt, tail curling against his chair leg. The lack of answer didn’t seem to bother Victor. He finished eating, drinking his tea much like the day before, with a sugar cube held between his teeth. He enjoyed the gentle luxury of this moment in time, pulling Yuri into light conversation until they both looked about done.

“Ready to go fishing?”

Yuri furrowed his brow, having forgotten for a moment what he’d agreed to the night before. “You mean the glass floor room.”

Victor grinned and winked. “Something like that. I still wanted to show you before you disappeared into the greenhouses or whatever else you were planning on today.” He set his teacup down, pushing back from the table and stretching as he stood. It was two steps to get past his chair and closer to where Yuri sat. Victor held out a hand, inviting Yuri to stand.

He found himself reaching out, wondering if they were shaking hands over the fish of all things. He didn’t expect to be hauled up out of his chair with a cheery smile, Victor letting go once Yuri was standing. _What just happened?_ He wondered muzzily, looking down at the table, then back up to Victor.

Victor, who was already leading the way out the door. The room he wanted to show Yuri was on the ground floor, as opposed to the bulk of bedchambers on the second floor. He waited for Yuri to catch up before adjusting his pace to Yuri’s stride.

“Three, four… ah, here! It’s in this way,” Victor said, counting down doors that looked much too similar to each other. He tested the handle, then gently stepped inside. A quiet command to Makkachin had her slow down and walk in sedately as well, nails clicking gently off the protected glass of the aquarium top.

Yuri glanced down, perturbed by the sheets of glass inlaid on the floor. The light coming through the windows wasn’t much for seeing. It wasn’t until Victor activated the witchlight in the room that he could properly see into the depths of the aquarium, past the glimpse of something slow and sinuous flashing silver in the shadows.

He looked down into the clarity of the water below, and he gasped. “Koi?”

Victor knelt down, pressing his palm against the glass with a sense of wonder. He wanted to study the spell, though he doubted he could ever work it himself. It was still fascinating. His attention pulled back up to Yuri at his single word exclamation. “Koi?”

“The fish,” Yuri said, trying to explain. “I don’t know if they are, but they look just like koi.”

“Wow, so you recognise them? I thought they looked a little like carp,” Victor admitted, shaking his head. “I haven’t heard of koi before. They’re beautiful.”

Yuri could only feel himself nodding. He sank down to his knees by Victor, staring into the depths of the water, tracking the movement of fish he didn’t think he’d ever see again. Fish he hadn’t particularly thought about, or even cared about, five years ago. It was funny what one missed when one was no longer able to find it. He felt his heart ache, but in a happier way than usual. In that moment he was perversely glad Victor had come here, if only to give Yuri this tiny gift of familiarity from home.

He swallowed past a lump in his throat.

“Isn’t this amazing?” Victor smiled down at the glass, hand pressed against the transparent surface. He was utterly absorbed watching the fish below, safe in their sanctuary. Yuri turned his face toward him, that ache in his heart remaining. Feeling warmth, too, flooding in after it as he studied this impossible man. So brightly alive, so curious, so bothersome in his nosiness. So, so...

The koi swam in their lazy, looping infinity beneath his knees, and Yuri knew it was hopeless. His heart, fragile traitor that it was, had already decided for him. 

_Oh_ , he thought, feeling himself flushing, assured of Victor remaining ignorant of the fact. _Oh, no_. He sat back, one hand clutching at his chest over his heart. _I can’t._

“It’s amazing,” he said at last, agreeing, feeling the world falling away from under his feet. His eyes were on Victor, beautiful, ridiculous, talented Victor. “Endlessly surprising.”

_I can’t be falling._

In the greenhouse where it sat, carefully displayed to the winter sunlight streaming through the windows, the protective leaves covering the tight bud of what had been the blue rose slowly parted. Nestled safe among the green lay petals of an impossible, beautiful blue.

* * *

The press of magic had grown worse during dinner, leaving Victor feeling more tired than he should. He rallied, genuine in his amazement at the meal Yuri had pulled together. The pork was prepared in a way he wasn’t used to, flavoured with ginger. His first bite down into the meat was a happy surprise, giving him a brief injection of energy as he sat up and exclaimed over its deliciousness. Yuri even looked gratified, from the cant of his ears and the happy curl of his tail, the way his shoulders relaxed and his hands fidgeted in his lap. It was surprising how endearing Victor found his response. He almost wished there was anything else he could genuinely compliment, but they were soon too busy eating, and Yuri was soon back to being a distracted mess of nerves. 

Yuri excused himself first, heading to bed with his arms wrapped around his chest. He looked like a man fearing an upcoming execution, but with as little sleep as Yuri had been getting, and knowing that tonight would be rough as the castle processed the overwhelming press of magic weighing down on them, Victor couldn’t blame him. He tidied up, took Makkachin out again for the night, and then brought her in with a yawn stifled against the back of his hand.

He didn’t even complain when the castle had laid out sleeping wear for him, instead staring at it dully and noting this set didn’t have any tail slits. Where had it come from? Pulling on the night shirt and loose pants, he found nothing made it much past his elbows or knees, but it would do. Crawling into his nest of blankets on the floor, Victor fluffed his pillow, and then let his aching head rest. He was asleep within minutes, Makkachin snoring beside him.

The fire had become little more than glowing embers when Victor sat up, abruptly pulled out of deep sleep to awakeness. His senses were alight and over-keen, sights and smells and scents and tastes sharp and intense. He breathed in carefully, flinching as a sound like thunder struck the castle and the magic _moved_. He could feel it flow, slow at first, then faster, a spiral that funneled to some point he couldn’t sense. He was cradling his head, Makkachin awake and whining at his side as the pressure built and built, the thunder shaking the air around them. 

Then as abruptly as it had come on, with a crack of sound so loud and bright and intense it may as well have been lightning improbably striking the castle, the intense pressure slackened. The magic wasn’t as cutting, had settled back into waiting, almost anticipating. It was frightening, if Victor was honest with himself. Where the magic here had felt like a cat rubbing up against his calves two days ago, this felt like a panther watching from the shadows, the hunt on its mind.

He held Makkachin close to his side, calming his dog’s shivering along with his own fast beating heart. That predatory anticipation kept him awake, unwilling to move. He spared a thought for Yuri, wondering if he was okay; but Yuri had weathered this for years. Victor hadn’t. Makkachin hadn’t.

Yuri would be fine.

An hour passed, maybe two, before the intensity started swelling. He felt it as a hum against his senses, vibrating in his teeth. Gritting his teeth so hard his jaw started to ache, Victor held on to Makkachin and willed whatever this was to be over. He tried reaching out to the magic, felt it lap against him, then pull, a wild thing with teeth and an appetite, ready to swallow him whole.

He pulled back, tucking his magic deep inside him, a seed to protect. Why had he wanted to stay for this? What had driven him to not leave the day before, or even this last morning? Curiosity was the answer, and a stranger reluctance on his part to leave quite yet. Both felt foolish in the depths of this darkness, waiting for whatever it was to end.

Then it did. The magic moved, behemoth that it was, and it flowed down, flooding through the castle, stealing heat from all it touched. Returning it in the next moment as a warmth that suffused everything; like the morning light of a summer’s sun, warm and sweet where it fell across his shoulders.

A cry, sharp and human, called out in the aftermath. It as a sound of such primal horror that Victor felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He was on his feet and running, slamming through his door and into the hall, Makkachin running after him. He didn’t know what could have possibly happened to have caused someone to cry out like that, but he knew of only one other person in the castle. 

“Yuri!” It was ridiculous, feeling his heart pound with a borrowed panic and a borrowed purpose. He ran barefoot down the hall, feel slapping against cool stone. He knew where Yuri’s rooms started, had committed them to memory with the full intention at the time to respect his wishes. Three days shouldn’t have posed him any real trouble. Being curious didn’t mean being rude, and Victor was far from a child. Panic pushed him past the boundaries of politeness, the surreal quiet of the castle feeling like a monolith holding its breath watching a scene unfold that Victor could only see in part.

The first door opened under his hands, revealing a foyer of a kind, stairs and more closed doors. He heard that sound again, something broken and raw, and he ran for the stairs. Found himself at the top, slamming his hands against another ornate door, carved that refused to open. Calling out to someone he barely knew.

“Yuri? Yuri, what’s happening?”

The voice that spoke from inside was thick, cracking. “Go away.”

“Yuri?” Victor left his palms against the door, regarding it with confusion, his heart still beating too fast. Everything in him wanted to run, or to fight, if he could find something to fight. There was nothing here, just Yuri beyond the doors, and the doors, carved and impossible and unmoving.

“ _Go away!_ ” Yuri’s voice broke again, and he cleared his throat, shouting one last time. “ _ **Go away!**_ ” He threw more than words, Victor feeling the push of magic back against him, a force without any guided finesse. Raw, like Yuri sounded. 

Victor stumbled back, catching himself at the top of the stairs, a hair’s breadth from falling down them. The renewed surge of adrenaline helped clear his head some, leaving him staring at the uncaring doors and wondering why in the world he’d come running here, where he wasn’t wanted. Why his thoughts had turned toward panic for someone he barely knew, who would have gladly held him prisoner here.

Except Victor knew that Yuri would never have gladly held anyone prisoner, and Victor had heard the fear and the pain in that outcry. Could still hear the pain, could _feel_ it, when Yuri yelled at him to leave.

“Okay,” he said, holding his hands up. A gesture of placation, of minor defeat. “Okay, Yuri. I’m going. I’m sorry to trouble you. I was worried, that’s all, but I’m leaving now.”

There was no response for a long minute. Victor counted the seconds. He breathed in deep, breathing out in a quiet sigh. Then he turned and walked down the steps, taking his time to trace his way back to his rooms, Makkachin by his side. He doubted he’d be sleeping again that night, but once he found his nest of blankets, exhaustion overwhelmed him. Victor was dragged into restless sleep, but sleep nonetheless, with his dog nosed up against him and twitching as she, too, pursued what she couldn’t quite catch.

Down the hall, huddled in a corner, Yuri held himself, arms wrapped around his legs and head jammed between his knees. He kept his eyes squeezed shut, hoping desperately that Victor had gone. Tears streamed down his cheeks unheeded, fighting free of his lashes. He felt them warm against his skin, which made it worse, so much worse.

Naked, Yuri wanted to vomit, wanted to run away, wanted to hold still until he stopped existing entirely. He wanted none of these things at the same time. As his breathing evened out, as he stopped feeling lightheaded and darkness stopped eating the edge of his field of vision, he lifted his head. Held up one shaking hand and stared at the pale flesh of his human arm.

It was sick, this twisted game. What had changed? What new taunt was _this?_ Yuri stared at his hand and wept tears of frustration and hopelessness, waiting for the moment black fur would start to push out from under his skin and the painful transformation back to beast would begin. It was inevitable, as sure as the sun would rise. He’d ceased being human years ago.

 _Until you know love and are loved in return_. All for a dance he hadn’t been able to perform; all because he hadn’t accepted an offer that hadn’t _been_ an offer. Yuri’s fingers curled into fists, knuckles white. 

_I can’t._

He refused to examine if it was a couldn’t or a wouldn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Here's the second half of the last week or so's effort. Chapter six may be delayed as I'm heading into a complicated series of events over the end of next week, but I'll do what I can up until I'm out of town.
> 
> We've finally gotten a bit more on what landed Yuri his curse, as well as seen that blue rose start to unfurl. Next chapter should be giving a better picture of what happened five years ago, along with addressing the Troupe's first attempt to get back out to Victor. Fingers crossed! I'm sure everything will go just as everyone has planned...
> 
> ... or not. As always, thank you guys so much for commenting, and I hope you've enjoyed the read!


	6. in which victor meets a wolf pack, and yuri asks him to dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Victor!” he said, leaning up and forward, tail sweeping around behind him in his excitement. “You’re finally awake! Look, the rose,” he said, lifting the pot and shoving the rose in Victor’s face. Victor blinked, tucking his chin in and moving his head back as the pot came disorientingly close to bopping him on his nose.
> 
> “Yuri?” His eyes flicked up toward Yuri’s face, past the weaving, waving leaves spilling over the edges of the ceramic pot on their thin branches. Brown eyes warm and shining with excitement met his. Victor felt his breath catch in his throat. Yuri’s pleasure, the light in his eyes as he leaned forward and chattered at Victor, was striking. Was, in a word, beautiful.
> 
> “It’s blue! Victor, _look_.”

The next morning dawned brown and brooding, the skies overcast with clouds made cumbersome by their burden of snow. Makkachin was as subdued as Victor felt, staying close to his side and licking his hand as he stood staring out the window. He was exhausted and annoyed, even though what rode him more heavy than either of those emotions was the discontent of not understanding what was going on. Yuri and his shouting was only the cap to the mystery of the thunderous noises of the night before. There was the even more surprising truth he realised as he stood flat footed on the cool stone floor.

He’d woken up _without_ a pounding headache. All the magical energy that had been pressing in around the castle, almost heavy enough to _see_ , was gone. Dissipated. He could reach out his senses and touch on the lines of power that flowed through the castle, but they were normal, healthy. Nothing unusual, and nothing so overwhelming as the last few days. Nothing so incredibly pressing as last night.

Victor shoved his hands through his hair, pushing it back off his face with a sigh. Another mystery, and not his to solve. He’d waited through the new moon. Now he needed to head back to Yakov and everyone else.

Philua was a consideration on his mind as he pulled on his mended socks, layering on all the same clothing he’d arrived in. None of it had been further mended when it was cleaned. He found that reassuring. 

Tightening his scarf around his neck, he stooped down, picking up his boots. He cast one last glance around the room to ensure he hadn’t left anything behind. The fire had burned to ashes in the hearth, wood in a metal bin to the side. The bedding was folded back and resting at the foot of the bed, pillows stacked neatly to the side. He’d thought about remaking the bed; figured the castle might prefer to wash the sheets. It was no indelible impression of his time here. There were no such marks to make.

Victor stepped through the door with Makkachin at his side. He didn’t look back, didn’t do more than flick his eyes in the direction of Yuri’s suites, that extensive part of the wing devoted to Yuri alone.

He was none of Victor’s business. Victor reminded himself of that as he headed down the elegant sweep of stairs into the grand hall, as he stepped through the doors leading to the entry hall. _Not my business_ , he told himself as he pulled on his boots one by one, lacing them tight, tucking his pants inside them. 

Philua was his business, but not business he could bring home. The front doors opened reluctantly, hinges protesting with a low whine Makkachin unwittingly echoed, tail low behind her. Victor strode out into the chill of the morning with an empty stomach and grim set to his mouth, heading for the stables. He’d check on Philua, then walk the long way around the castle to the kitchens. It’d cut down on chances of running into Yuri, though from what Victor could see of the snows, there was no evidence he’d been out to the stables this morning. The only prints leaving the castle were the ones he and Makkachin left behind them.

A whickering greeted them as they slipped into the stables, Philua’s head poking over the door to his stall, ears perked forward. The dark pony poked his head out too, snorting when he saw who was in evidence. His head retreated. Philua’s stayed, ears perked forward. He called out again, tapping a foot against the door.

“I didn’t bring anything for you, Philua. I’m sorry,” he said offering the flat of his empty, gloved hand to the horse. He was rewarded with snuffling and a snort of disappointment, Philua lipping the material of his glove in hope. No carrots or apples or anything else delectable manifested. Victor moved to scratch at the curve of Philua’s jaw, appeasing some of the horse’s appetite for affection, if not for food.

“Yuri’s been taking care of you. Once the snow subsides we’ll come fetch you home, all right? The master of the castle’s kind enough to keep you fed and tended to until then, so be a good guest while you’re healing under his roof. Listen to the pony until then. He’s a good sort. Smart, too. Prone to eavesdropping,” Victor added in a mild tone, glancing up and over to see the black pony regarding him with a quiet contemplation.

The pony held his gaze, unrepentant. This was his home. Co-opted or not, he’d lived here for longer than Victor had been a guest.

“You’ll keep an eye on him?” Victor felt less ridiculous asking the too intelligent pony for his word today than three days ago. The pony regarded him, ears faced forward. His tail flicked once, then he bowed his head, extending one leg out. It was either a bow in earnest or an elaborate way for him to scratch an itch on his face, considering how he held the post for the beat of his heart and the proceeded to rub his face against his knee.

Victor chose to be optimistic. “Thank you,” he said, patting Philua on the neck. He stepped back, flowing into an overly elegant bow of his own, all grace and the memory of a different time. Straightening, he was gratified to find the pony had likewise straightened. Maybe they were of more like minds than he believed.

There was no evidence of Yuri. Philua’s healing injuries had no new application of salve, and the bran bucket hung cold and empty off a hook by the doors. Victor frowned, whistling for Makkachin before slipping back out into the morning stillness.

They trudged the unfamiliar outside of the castle, following the perimeter to where he guessed the kitchens to be. He peered in through the windows they passed, seeing from the outside several of the rooms he’d witnessed from inside. The longest stretch of windows before he reached the kitchens belonged to the dining hall proper, cold and empty in the morning light.

He tried the door at the stoop leading into the kitchen, pulling the door open with a creaking protest on behalf of the hinges. “I thought you wanted me to say inside,” he said, muttering at the resistance. He felt a brush of the castle’s magic against his senses, then nothing more. Even the castle seemed half asleep this morning.

The loaned satchel hung from its hook on the wall. Victor took care in efficiently packing the same staples that Yuri had allotted him days before. Not any more, and not any less. Hard cheese, the bread, the dried strips of meat. All wrapped in beeswax cloth, tucked in with the canteen filled with water from the pump at the sink.

Makkachin was subdued throughout, wagging her tail once or twice as she noticed Victor looking her way. She settled down and stared at the doors leading into the kitchen, ears perked forward, waiting and listening for sounds that never came.

Victor noticed. He was listening for the same sounds. That odd yet familiar clack of nails against stone, the light footed way Yuri moved. His awkwardness in that stilted first moment, and the slow way he relaxed. 

The master of the castle didn’t appear. Nothing moved except for Victor and his dog, and he couldn’t afford to wait. He glanced around the kitchen, eyes lingering on the stools set at the corner of the center island table.

“Thank you,” he said at last. His lips curled up into an ironic smile. “May you find neither fur nor feathers.”

He chose to imagine he could hear the familiar rejoinder, _the hell I won’t_ , as he stepped back out into the cold. Makkachin trailed after him with a put upon sigh, oblivious to the old statement on luck her master had given the quiet house. With the door closed behind them, Victor crouched down, gloved hands tangling with the hair on either side of her face.

“Ready to head home, Makkachin?” He laughed as she perked up, trying to lick at his face and wagging her tail with more enthusiasm than she’d shown earlier. The two of them set on their way, following the path he remembered the pony taking when they’d approached the castle. Even with the clear expanse leading down to the archway of interlocked trees down the drive, Victor didn’t want to chance what he couldn’t see. The pony had avoided it. Victor trusted there was a reason.

He reached out as they walked, feeling for the magic of the estate as they were breaking trail through the snowfall as fresh as the night before. There was nothing but the sound of their feet on snow as they walked, sun still hidden behind a blanket of clouds. The magic was still there, but as he’d noticed in the castle, it no longer carried the sense of overwhelming purpose, waiting for an unknown series of events to set in motion. It flowed strong and steady, splintering into smaller flows of magic that fractured off into the distance.

He liked the feeling of the magic now, still warm and friendly and almost recognising him when he brushed up against it with his own personal magic. The land’s magic swelled in response, ebbing away again when Victor let it flow through him as a conduit. It was cleansing in a way. The act of near meditation tugged at the sharp edges of fear and dismay from the night before and smoothed them over. He could start to appreciate the simplicity of walking under his own power, by his own choice. Feeling the crisp air around him, breathing in deep, breathing out in a cloud of white that dissipates before long. It’s not as beautiful as the mornings before, but he was more free in this moment than he had been.

Captive to his own curiosity after a certain point, but even that he could set aside for the time being. He let his mind relax into observation and absorption as he wound around toward the canopy of trees laced over the drive. Snow drifted underneath their boughs, but it was less than what feel unimpeded, and icier. Victor paused at the entrance, having to shake off that feeling of being at a threshold. He looked back, catching sight of the castle framed through the shorter trees and hedges and the unmarked snow leading up to them; a brilliant white carpet leading up to the champagne stone, looking grand and lonely and bereft in the morning light.

It pulled at him even then. Victor pressed his lips into a thin line and made himself smile. He turned around, marching out onto the crackling ice under the canopy of trees. “We’re going home, Makkachin.” The dog barked, trotting ahead of him. “Going home.”

Nothing contested his progress. Makkachin grew tired of veering off on her own, sticking to trailblazing ahead of him with periodic glances back, assuring herself he still followed. He waved her on, considering how much ground they’d have to cover today. Would they be able to make it back to the city? Spending a night open and exposed didn’t sound appealing, but he’d dealt with it before.

The looming spectre of the gate resolved itself out of the snowed over landscape, wrought iron dusted with snow. It hung at the same awkward angle as when Victor had come through with the pony days before. No surprise there. He couldn’t imagine a reason why it would have changed. Not unless enough snow had collected to bring it further down. He shook his head. It wasn’t his problem, and it was hardly like Yuri was worried about putting up a welcoming front.

Ahead of him, Makkachin came to a dead stop. Her hackles rose, a hunching of her shoulders as a low growl rumbled through her chest. Victor went still, eyes flicking to his dog, then to the gate. The snow here was as undisturbed around him as it had been for the duration of his walk away from the castle. The castle he could no longer see, hidden as it was by the natural roll of the landscape and the distance from its front gated wall to its front hall.

Nothing stirred in the wide expanse of white around them. Makkachin didn’t stop growling, bracing her front legs and barking, going from warning to a frenzy of sound. She wasn’t alone: as she barked, Victor could hear an answering bark, then two, before it burst into a howl.

His heart leapt into his throat. “The wolves,” he said, running forward. Reaching out for Makkachin and hauling her backward. He could see glimpses of them now, dark eyes and dark noses moving beyond the gate. 

One great furry head started through the gap in the gates, ears forward, tail held out straight behind. Victor barely caught sight of bared teeth and pink gums before he was moving, reaching for the magic that flowed by with ease today, unlike the days before. It wasn’t simple as dancing in the unused ballroom. The magic was there, yes, but not in the same great quantity, rubbing up against him, waiting to be directed. The steps he fell into were a firm request, a stomping whirl and clap of muffled hands before he swayed, stomped, and brought his arms together then up in a forceful motion.

The magic responded, the conduit of his body burning with the influx, both libation and masochistic pain at the same time. He could not afford subtlety. There was no artistry in this, just the need, the adrenaline shooting through him and the magic that rallied to his call, filling him, flowing out again as he moved. 

Winter was his season. Victor called on the water, the ice, to respond, and with a cracking snap, it did. Thick stalagmites of ice shoved up from the ground, reaching skyward as the snows surrounding the gate dwindled. Bare roadway showed by the time Victor came to a stop, hands fisted, elbows bent, scarf loosened around his shoulders. His legs were braced shoulder width apart, his eyes alight with the remnants of the magic he’d called upon. He breathed too hard, panting, trying to pull in enough oxygen. The magic had been there, but it was at normal levels. Calling on so much so quickly without any preparation or anyone else to help establish the rhythm, to guide the working, took a toll.

He stood before a gate rendered temporarily impassable, riddled with close packed stalagmites of ice reaching as high as the top of the gate arch. There was a frightening sort of haphazard beauty to it all, the ice reflecting ripples of blue and white throughout. He leaned forward, holding on to his legs above his knees, letting his head fall forward. He kept his feet, Makkachin still growling, sidling close until she was pressed up against his legs. He reached out, looking to pat her on her back. He ended up holding onto her shoulders to keep himself steady.

If the magic had been flowing like it was the day before, it wouldn’t have been this exhausting. Both a curious and frightening thought, to realise the extent of the difference. When the magic needed a purpose, pushed to be guided into spells and weavings, versus now, when it was willing, but not desperate. The desperation had been all his.

The burning was fading as his adrenaline levels fell. Victor felt himself shake once, a reaction to the cold and the danger of dealing with a wolf pack hungry enough to confront a healthy human and their dog. It wasn’t normal behaviour, and he’d remembered Yakov talking about the wolves who’d tracked him and Philua to this place. The wolves who were not quite right.

Victor straightened, already getting his breathing under control. This had felt like running sprints without taking time to warm up. He needed to walk off the aches after.

He needed to consider the fact he’d just sealed himself and Makkachin on Yuri’s estate.

“Well girl,” he said, staring at his handiwork on the gate and shivering with the lingering touch of his magic. “Home may need to wait for a little while longer.”

* * *

Yuri stayed in his rooms until late morning, finally stirring himself to dress and head down to the kitchens, avoiding the breakfast room. He’d spent half an hour staring at the dark fur that covered his fingers once again, the thickened pads on the palms of his hands, on the tips of his fingers. It may as well have been an illusion seeing flesh instead of fur. He wanted to believe that, and so little by little, he did.

It didn’t drive all the stomach curling feelings away, but it redirected some of his worry, allowed him to catch his breath and face the day.

Victor would be gone by now. Yuri had hung back to not witness that leavetaking. He didn’t want to talk to the other man after yelling at him the night before, mind already shying away from why he’d lashed out. He was fine. Walking on feet and legs that didn’t bend or move like human legs; he was fine.

He heard sounds from the kitchen as he approached, his own step slowing. Usually the castle wasn’t all that noisy, except when its unseen servants were trying to make some wish or another known. For the most part, Yuri was used to those interruptions. The sound of a stool scraping against stone was familiar, too, but not without a reason.

His heart started beating faster, fingers clenching into fists before Yuri uncurled them, slipping closer. He could feel his ears press out to the sides, flicking forward to catch what sounds they could. Nerves kept inclining them backward.

His hand found the handle, pressing down as he stepped through into the familiar landscape of the castle kitchens. Finding a familiar form moving through the kitchen, filling the kettle and setting it back on the hook hanging over the kitchen hearth.

“Victor?”

Makkachin lifted her head from her paws, wagging her tail at the sight of Yuri in the doorway. Victor turned and lifted his eyebrows. He had several things he could ask, and several more he needed to tell, but he kept it simple.

“Tea?”

Yuri hesitated. Part of him wanted to turn around and slip away again. Another part of him wanted to demand Victor leave, like he said he would, but he checked that impulse. For one, Victor had proven to be a man of his word for the most part. If he was here still, there was a reason, even if it might not be one that Yuri understood. For another, some of the knot of tension in his stomach loosened, just a little, at the sight of him.

He swallowed hard. “Yes,” he said, and he quietly moved into the kitchen proper. Makkachin watched him, and he rewarded her by coming close and crouching down to run his blunted claws over her head. She sniffed at his arm, offering a lick at the air, then shoved her head more firmly into his nails.

Victor pulled out another mug from the cabinets, searching in the pantry for sugar. He didn’t find the sugar cubes he’d been indulging the last few days, but he did find a bag of sugar. Hunting down a bowl occupied a few more moments, turning over the words he needed to give Yuri.

Finally, the kettle boiled, and Victor lifted it up and set it on the center island. There was no _samovar_ here, unlike in the breakfast room, but he’d set the tea to steeping in the smaller teapot. Porcelain with cranes and lilies winding around each other, wading through pools of water.

“Did you know about the wolves?”

Yuri glanced up, away from Victor’s pouring of the concentrated tea into each of their mugs. “Pardon?”

“The wolves,” he said, setting down the teapot. “When Makkachin and I were heading out this morning we didn’t make it past the gates to the estate before we ran into the wolves.”

Both Yuri’s ears perked forward, his lips pulling back from his teeth. “No, I didn’t. I thought they’d been run off after the last time.”

Victor brought their mugs over, setting one before Yuri. “When Yakov and Philua were attacked?”

Yuri grunted, ear flicking out to the side. “They were loud through the night. I could hear them from here. It’s why I went out,” he said, trailing off. Yuri reached out, pulling his mug closer without wrapping his hands around it. 

Here was part of the mystery that didn’t make sense to Victor now that he’d met the Beast responsible for Yakov’s saving as well as damning. He hooked a foot around the stool, dragging it closer, taking a seat. His weary attention was focused on Yuri, watching the way his lips covered his teeth once more, the wrinkle to his nose, the way it changed how his whiskers jutted out to the sides. Yuri glanced up, through his lenses, ears pivoting forward. 

“What?” He frowned, or gave a good approximation of it, nose wrinkling further, grey-white fur over his eyes furrowing, almost as if he still had eyebrows. It was unexpectedly endearing.

Victor shook his head, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. He was tired, and he wanted to blame errant thoughts on that magic-caused exhaustion. He knew himself too well to grant the excuse much weight. “How did you drive them back the last time? I hiked the length of the wall after sealing the gates. They paced the walls with me, but they couldn’t manage to scale over.”

Yuri was still frowning, shoulders hunching. He was thinking, and Victor wasn’t included in that thought process. He could only wait as Yuri slowly wrapped his hands around his mug of tea, tail twitching impatiently behind him.

“I’m not… entirely sure,” he admitted at last, moving his muzzle to look at Makkachin. “I heard the howling, then the growls and barks, the screaming…” His ears flattened against his skull. Yuri raked blunt nails through his hair, smoothing errant strands flat before they sprung back up, unwilling to be tamed. “The magic was stronger then, and I don’t think the castle liked them around much either. They were there, attacking, and then they weren’t.”

When no further explanation was forthcoming, Victor frowned, sitting back on his stool. “Just like that? There, then gone?”

Yuri started to nod, changing his mind and shaking his head. “Yes, no? They were there, then I don’t remember, something happened, something with the magic, my memory gets fuzzy. The next thing I knew, they were gone.” He was getting more agitated, tail lashing instead of swaying, ears twitching like he was trying to dislodge a buzzing insect. Clear enough signs for Victor to read. Pushing Yuri after last night seemed unwise. “I had to find a way to get the horse in, and get the old man in. I didn’t know if either of them was going to make it.”

Victor nodded, making himself relax and sigh, flashing Yuri a tired, grateful smile. “They wouldn’t have if you didn’t go investigating. Ah, which brings me back around… I mentioned the gate was sealed?”

It took a beat before Yuri pulled himself out of the certainty that he was forgetting something important, something he needed to _remember_ , his eyes refocusing on Victor. The gate? Oh, right. Victor _had_ mentioned something about that. “Yes, you did. I’m surprised, half the gate was well off its hinges.”

“Oh, it still was. Still is, really. I ended up sealing everything off with ice.” He lifted his mug, blowing gently on the surface of it as Yuri blinked, then outright _stared_.

“You did _what_?”

“Sealed it off with ice,” Victor said, taking a too hot sip of tea. No sugar. He’d forgotten to add any. 

“Just like that? Without any preparation? Don’t you have to, I don’t know, warm up for that?”

Victor grimaced, shifting on the stool. “A wise witch would,” he agreed, knowing half the time he barely qualifies. “If they knew what they were walking into or had the luxury of time to prepare. I didn’t have that luxury.” He took another sip of tea, closer to a gulp. He appreciated the way it burned warm going down, spreading heat to combat the chill plaguing him. He knew part of it was psychological, but part of it was real, too. Residual effects of magic he hadn’t prepared to use beforehand. “I don’t think I’ll be able to call the ice back down again today, if the wolves have even moved on.”

Yuri was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact Victor was telling him he’d single handedly iced over the gateway to the estate. “You danced the ice into sealing off the gate. But ─ _how_?”

Victor gave Yuri a dry look. He could recognise the astonishment there on some level. It shouldn’t, in theory, be easy to do. It hadn’t been _easy_ , but it’d been doable. The toll it’d taken on Victor was slow to catch up, but adrenaline had pushed the after effects off until now. He set his mug down to not betray the weakness he was starting to feel in his arms. “I seem to remember a good deal of stomping involved, but you might forgive me for not recalling exactly how I was dancing.”

“You know that’s not what I mean. How did you manage that and yet you’re still standing right now? The magic here isn’t as strong as it will be. It’s like being anywhere else right now,” he said, going still as he studied Victor with a critical once over. “You had to hike back from the gates.”

“From the gates _after_ marching some length of the wall.”

“Victor, you should be in bed, not making tea in the kitchen!” Yuri shook his head, lips pulling back from his teeth, one foot stomping on the ground in disapproval.

Oddly enough, the chastisement made Victor want to laugh. He didn’t manage it, too tired, but he still found himself smiling. “You don’t mind if I impose myself on your kindness for another day?”

“Idiot, why would I mind? You’re welcome as long as you want to stay!” He was surprised at his own vehemence, quick on the tail of his concern. He tucked his chin in, pushing onward. “If the wolves really are out there, the castle’s in no place to help drive them off again right now anyway. If you can even manage to get yourself out between the iron and ice in the first place.”

Victor found it both mildly amusing and surprising to be yelled at in a manner more familiar to his troupe by Yuri, of all people. Moreover, being outright welcome here, and that seeming to catch even Yuri by surprise? He smiled. “Getting out again won’t be a problem. The wolves would be, unless I’ve called the magic before I’m facing them. Even then, I can’t take on the whole pack alone. Or I won’t. I’m not particularly eager to die.”

Yuri huffed out through his nose, not sure Victor didn’t have something of a death wish to have shown up at the castle in the first place. It niggled at the back of his mind, and as he lapped his tea (the mugs were barely wide enough to be functional for him, but he was used to making it work) his thoughts were pulled back to his greenhouses. “Could have fooled me.”

Victor laughed, cradling his mug between his hands. “Yuri, it almost sounds like you care!” Sobering, he shook his head. “I’m touched by the concern, but trust me. Whatever I expected when I came _here_ was a matter of debts settled and owed. I don’t go looking for trouble.”

Yuri lifted his snout, fixing Victor with a dry look. “Maybe not, but it has a habit of finding you.”

He smiled, tired as he was, and flicked his fingers toward Yuri. “Hello, Trouble.”

Yuri grunted and shoved his nose back into his mug. “No comment,” he muttered. Unintentionally, he supposed he was a sort of trouble to Victor, but he didn’t like the thought or how it twisted in his stomach. Trouble meant disaster, disaster meant catastrophe, and his life was difficult enough without being responsible for reducing someone _else_ to equally miserable circumstances. Setting down his half-finished mug, Yuri stood and turned on heel, sweeping away. 

“Yuri?” Victor sounded concerned, less teasing than a moment before. Yuri’s ear flicked backward. He didn’t turn around, but he did pause at the threshold of the door. 

“I’m heading out to the greenhouse,” he said, tail curling tight against the back of his legs. “I’ll see you later.”

“Okay.” Victor found himself watching Yuri’s back, noting his posture. He ventured a request before he disappeared out the door. “I’d love seeing them sometime before I leave.” Hoping, presuming, that his leaving might be tomorrow.

Yuri’s back straightened, tail twitching. “We’ll see.” Then he was gone, leaving Victor in Makkachin’s company once again.

Victor looked down to his dog, shrugging his shoulders as she gave an uncertain wag of her tail. “Looks like it’s up to us to entertain ourselves again today.” The wag of her tail grew more pronounced, responding to the lightness in his tone. He hid his frown behind his mug. “After a nap.” Which was how it came to pass that Victor made his way back to the golden room he’d dozed in the day of his arrival, laying out on one of the longer couches, folding a throw blanket under his head to use as a pillow. Exhaustion caught up with him in a wave, pulling him under as soon as he lay back. Victor surrendered to the oblivion of exhaustion for a while, and all around him danced golden motes of light.

* * *

Yuri’s hands were shaking as he worked, until he pressed them down against the bench he was by, annoyed with himself. He had to slow himself down, remember how to breathe in through his mouth and out through his nose. Five years made the oddity of the process with his muzzle second nature; he smelled less this way, only exhaling through his nose. It made focusing easier, not being bombarded by the mixed scents of floral and earth and damp in the sunlight.

He felt better by degrees, enough so that lifting his head to look around showed him the dampened colours of the room. He didn’t feel at peace, but he felt less unbalanced. He could manage this level of nipping thoughts and concerns. 

He stood, brushing dirt off his hands and knees. He felt pride when he looked around, knowing all this was from his efforts over the last five years. He might not be capable of the grander sort of magic weaving that Victor seemed to manage; surprising, when compared to the water dance in the ballroom. It’d been a powerful use of magic through the control exhibited, but it’d also been relying on the magic swirling around the castle itself. What Victor had done today, out at the gates, was something entirely different.

Yuri wandered the walkways between sections of plants, winding toward where he kept the potted blue rose. His thoughts were lost between worrying over the wolves and what their reappearance could possibly mean, to how long Victor would be here, to the part of himself that wondered if he could convince him not to go. He pulled his own thoughts away from questions like those, guarding himself against possibilities he knew he couldn’t entertain. Victor had a life, had a family of sorts, certainly had a career. Yuri’d had all those at one point too, but that was before things had changed. 

Now he had this, he thought to himself, reaching out to run his fingers over the petals of a particular rose. His eyes weren’t certain of the colour, but his nose told him about the subtle weight of its scent. A little like sunshine, even though roses should be dormant this time of the year.

His hand fell away. He turned his gaze toward the shelves facing the sun, picking out the potted rose and pausing as he did so. He hadn’t been sure something born of magic as it was would take root and grow, but the evidence of its thriving was right in front of him. The closed bud had opened, revealing the petals of the rose within.

The _blue_ rose. Yuri perked his ears forward, striding close and lifting the pot in his hands. His eyes couldn’t tell him everything, and he knew that subtleties in colour escaped him these days, yet even he could see the blue of the petals. Turning the pot between his hands, angling the rose through the early afternoon light, Yuri felt his breath catch in his throat. Simple joy flooded through him, leaving him smiling, canines bared, mouth open, tongue lolling forward and curling at the tip. He laughed, uncaring and unselfconscious of the sharp bark behind it.

He was already moving by the time he realised what he was doing, slinging his cloak over his shoulder and around the rose, protecting it from the burst of chill as he stepped outside. He was at the door and into the castle proper in three bounding steps, leaving the door ajar as he set off down the hall. 

In the last five years, he’d had a limited audience to share any of his successes with, or to lament around without mentioning his failures. The closest thing to a confidante he’d had outside of the memory of those people in his own head was the pony: the pony who listened politely, but who had nothing to say.

He didn’t stop to think if Victor would have anything to say. The desire to share overrode everything else, Yuri’s tail lifted away from the back of his legs and waving behind him with every step he took. He moved through the halls, pausing and lifting his nose to breathe in deep, scenting Makkachin and her owner. He was a swift tracker in his home if he didn’t slow himself down considering the reasons why he could scent and hear where his guests were; if he ignored the extra pinprick of awareness that went even beyond that.

He stepped through the door into the golden parlour, Makkachin lifting her head from where she rested at Victor’s feet. She yawned, sliding off the couch and going into a bow as she stretched and yawned again, tail wagging slow, then faster as Yuri beamed down at her. Her ears tipped back, and his tipped forward, and he laughed, stepping around to the couch to beam down at Victor’s sleeping face.

“Victor,” he said, kneeling at the side of the couch. “Victor, wake up. Look! The rose, Victor. Can you believe it? It’s blue. Blue! I haven’t been dying the water for this, I’ve just been watering it, and in three days I suppose it could have already started blooming but _Victor_.” Yuri leaned in, a whine of excitement in the back of his throat. Makkachin came in close, nuzzling at Yuri’s side, and he nuzzled back against her with his face, hands full. 

Victor was slow to rouse, the exhaustion of his unprepared outpouring and use of magic having caught up and carried him off past where dreams could find him. Which was perhaps why he felt like it was a sort of gentle, surreal dream in itself when his eyes slit open, blinking away lingering exhaustion, only to find himself witness to an odd tableau. Yuri and Makkachin, all four ears perked forward, Yuri angling his muzzle away from Makkachin and her enthusiastic licking, laughing. He seemed so genuinely happy, beaming with his canine grin when he noticed Victor’s eyes were open.

“Victor!” he said, leaning up and forward, tail sweeping around behind him in his excitement. “You’re finally awake! Look, the rose,” he said, lifting the pot and shoving the rose in Victor’s face. Victor blinked, tucking his chin in and moving his head back as the pot came disorientingly close to bopping him on his nose.

“Yuri?” His eyes flicked up toward Yuri’s face, past the weaving, waving leaves spilling over the edges of the ceramic pot on their thin branches. Brown eyes warm and shining with excitement met his. Victor felt his breath catch in his throat. Yuri’s pleasure, the light in his eyes as he leaned forward and chattered at Victor, was striking. Was, in a word, beautiful.

“It’s blue! Victor, _look_.”

Victor swallowed and pushed up on his elbows, hoping the light dusting of pink barely brushing his cheeks and the tip of his nose would go unnoticed. 

“I’m looking, I’m looking.” He dragged his eyes away from Yuri’s, focusing on the flower. For the second time in as many minutes, he felt his breath catch. Yuri’s repetition of _the rose is blue_ finally penetrated, and Victor came fully awake, laughing in his own echoed realisation. “It’s blue! That’s incredible! Yuri, it bloomed this way without dye?”

“Yes! Just think, when it grows, we can see about propagating roses from the cuttings, and if the colour holds…”

Victor’s eyes met Yuri’s again over the top of the budding rose, two of the tightly gathered petals having begun their gradual unfurling outward. They beamed at each, sharing a perfect moment of astonishment and pleasure at this little miracle of magic. Yuri held the potted rose, stray tendrils of his hair spilling past one overlarge ear, worked loose from his queue in his excitement. Victor reached out to brush some of his hair off Yuri’s face and tuck it carefully around the curve of his ear, smiling.

Yuri went still, his laughter trailing off. His eyes widened, going from excited to gently disbelieving at the careful, deliberate movement of Victor’s hand. He didn’t realise he was holding his breath until Victor’s own laughter trailed off and the loudest sound between them was the hammering of Yuri’s heart. Surely loud enough that Victor could hear.

Victor’s fingers lingered, brushing gently against the fur flaring out from the side of Yuri’s face below his ear. Neither of them spoke. Victor’s smile faded, eyes retaining some of his amusement. There was a searching quality in his eyes, the set of his lips changing into a considering, thoughtful, wistful line; or it might have been a trick of his own mind, Yuri reasoned. What in the world could Victor be searching for? Proof of Yuri’s monstrosity? It was self-evident to the world. 

Yuri didn’t have a chance to pursue that thought any further. Makkachin shoved her face in for a good sniff at the rose, breaking through the stillness that had fallen over them both. Yuri pulled the rose closer to his chest, ears flicking back and forward in his uncertainty. Victor’s hand dropped away, elbow coming to rest on the couch again.

“Yuri ─”

He rocked back, standing. “I should get this back to the greenhouse.”

Victor studied Yuri’s expression, sliding one knee up until his foot rested flat on the couch. He gave a nod, slow and deliberate. All his movements were slow, as if moving too quickly would startle Yuri into flight. “All right.” He smiled, a small quirk of his lips up at the corners. “Wouldn’t want anything to happen to it now. Not while it’s just starting to bloom.”

Yuri looked down to the flower in question. His shoulders drooped, losing some of their tension. Even his voice softened. “Yeah. I’d like to see it grow.” He lifted his eyes, chancing a look toward Victor where he remained sprawled on the couch. “Something like this almost feels like a once in a lifetime chance.” 

Victor met his gaze, expression inscrutable. His lips pulled up at the corners; a small, private sort of smile. “I know what you mean.” Yuri didn’t know what to make of the dusting of pink across Victor’s nose. The start of a head-cold, maybe, or the chill in the air of the room? Yuri himself almost felt too warm.

Yuri found himself clearing his throat, bobbing his head to Victor before turning to go. Stepping off the rug, he paused, hurriedly looking over his shoulder. “You should keep resting. I didn’t mean to wake you up, I just thought, with the rose… anyway, I thought you’d like to see.” 

“I did, thank you. It’s amazing.” He smiled, watching Yuri’s ears perk forward again. He meant it, but that wasn’t why he prompted himself into asking, “I’ll see you later?”

“Victor, I live here.” Yuri tipped his muzzle to the side, canines visible as he snorted. Victor’s question didn’t make any sense. He chose to ignore acknowledging his own tendencies toward avoidance. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

“Right, great.” Victor laughed, flopping back on the couch. It’d been a stupid question, but part of him felt like Yuri walking back out of this room was Yuri walking away somewhere Victor couldn’t follow. Which was ridiculous. He _shouldn’t_ follow him out to the greenhouse because he hadn’t been invited and this wasn’t his home. That wasn’t the same thing. “See you at dinner.”

He draped his arm across his eyes as Yuri left, the clack of his nails a soft staccato almost lost to the sound of his own breathing. He’d try to sleep. He knew he needed the rest. It was just difficult to shut down the circling thoughts that kept coming back around to the castle, its mystery of its magic, and its master, Yuri Katsuki.

* * *

Victor never did get back to sleep. After lying there restlessly he’d pulled himself off the couch, collected Makkachin, then made his way to the baths. Soaking up the warmth did wonders for the aches left in the aftermath of that morning’s strained use of magic, and came close to making him tired. Almost enough for him to consider another nap, though the urge abandoned him when he returned to the dressing area to find his clothes gone once again. 

“Castle. My clothing better be waiting for me upstairs.”

He had a vague sense of acknowledgment, but there was no sense of apology as he looked down at the outfit left folded carefully on the wooden benches. Black trousers, a white tunic, a blue overcoat. Darker than the blues Yuri generally favoured. Victor had to assume all of this was adapted from Yuri’s own clothing, but as he picked up the tunic, he found himself puzzling over the vibrancy of the material. Almost as if it was new.

Pulling it on, he was further struck by how it fit his shoulders, draping as if it’d been tailored to his measurements. He didn’t think he and Yuri had the same breadth of shoulders; Yuri was taller than Victor when they stood side by side, but his shoulders seemed slimmer under the fur. Not by much, but by enough that he felt the tunic should have been too loose for Yuri. Pulling on the trousers, he noted no awkward keyhole left for a tail. The seat of the pants was uninterrupted, not mended, simply whole.

The overcoat made it obvious, showing white and sky blue and golden embroidery in a mimicry of the patterning on the undertunic he’d been wearing since he arrived. Seeing Georgi’s curling leaves and clusters of forget-me-nots replicated here pulled at his heart, but it was gentle, the pain of fondness and a love that’s become second nature. He really did need to get back to his family of talented misfits. Had Yakov recovered fully by now? Victor could hardly imagine otherwise. Yura would be frothing at the bit to take action, Mila as willing but with a more even head. Georgi would be doing as Yakov asked, and ah, if that wasn’t reason enough to meet them all half-way, let them know he hadn’t been devoured or stolen away where they couldn’t follow.

Tying the provided belt off around his waist, Victor and Makkachin made their way through the castle toward the kitchens. Turning down the hall, they came across Yuri, waiting in similar finery, a short cape attached to his shoulders and draping rich, sky-blue material across his shoulders as he paced. His lips were curled back from his teeth, nose wrinkled, whiskers likewise wrinkled and sticking out at all angles. His irritation was palpable, low and bristly, but it faded as he shook his head and focused on Makkachin, then Victor.

Silver-white fur over Yuri’s eyes quirked upward as he took in Victor’s attire, tail gently swishing side to side behind him. “The castle got you again?”

“There was a vague promise my clothes would be waiting for me upstairs.” Victor smiled for a moment, waving his hand in front of himself, dismissing the castle’s childish antics. He nodded toward Yuri, eyes lighting up with pleasant interest. Amusement, too, but appreciation for the expert tailoring that framed Yuri and his vulpine features along with the lines of his body that were almost human. An interesting sort of almost human. Victor didn’t examine that thought too hard. “You look lovely.”

Yuri glanced down, muzzle smoothing out as he plucked at the material of his overshirt. “I can’t tell the colour variations half the time,” he confessed, glancing up and offering a small sort of grin, ears cocked playfully forward. “How long were you in the baths?” He came forward, lifting his short-furred, clean hand and settling the back of it against Victor’s forehead. “Paying compliments at this hour the night, you’re either hungry or you cooked yourself into a fever.”

Victor blinked and quirked his eyebrows up, surprised at the contact. Noting as he did that the fur on the back of Yuri’s hand was soft, almost velveteen, and warm. He didn’t pull away, instead breathing out in a sigh and giving Yuri his most put-upon, hang-dog expression, allowing his shoulders to slump. “ _Yuri._ Are you calling me insincere?”

Victor’s stomach chose that moment to grumble in vague complaint about its overall emptiness for the day, prompting Yuri into a lopsided canine smirk. 

“I’m calling you _hungry_ ,” Yuri said as he pulled his hand away from Victor’s forehead, nodding his head down the hall in the opposite direction of the kitchens. Victor felt his face heat, knowing he was blushing over something this ridiculous, but not why. It galled him enough to huff, outright pouting at Yuri with his hands pressed over his stomach. 

“Which is why you’re leading me _away_ from the kitchens? You’re so cruel,” Victor said, grumbling in earnest.

Yuri shrugged, turning on paw to start down the way, tail twitching in his amusement. Victor couldn’t witness the expression that flitted across Yuri’s face: his own embarrassment at his teasing turning into a squint and lolling of his tongue out of the side of his mouth, attempting to relieve the heat brought on by the impulse.

Makkachin was the second to betray Victor, trotting along after Yuri with a happy wag of her tail, and Victor followed with a baleful glance toward the kitchens. All the same, even his sudden nagging hunger took backseat to the curiosity of what Yuri had in mind. 

“Where are we going? I thought just the ballroom was down this way.”

Yuri’s tail wagged, keeping time with Makkachin’s. It was such an absurd image that Victor caught himself staring, looking pointedly to the side and tapping his finger on his chin when Yuri looked back over his shoulder, glasses reflecting light from the lights mounted on the walls of the hall. “It’s a surprise. Forcible surprise,” he added, facing forward again. His ears pulled back, a moment of irritation that flowed through Yuri and back out again. “But I think you’ll like it.”

His interest piqued, Victor picked up his pace to catch up and walk side by side with Yuri. “Forcible surprise? Doesn’t sound like it was anything you planned.”

Yuri’s ear flicked, swiveling to focus on Victor’s voice. “It wasn’t. Not by me, anyway.” He held his hands in front of himself, trying to capture words or an idea that kept slipping away. “The castle has a way of… indicating? Things?” Sighing in frustration, Yuri pushed at his hair instead, stopping in front of a set of beautifully inlaid wooden doors. “I don’t know how to describe it, but it wasn’t letting us eat in the kitchen tonight. Which is a bother, because the dining hall is so…”

Victor waited while Yuri reached for an apt descriptor, tipping his head to the side. He finally settled on, “Big?”

“I imagine it’s meant to be.” Victor made himself agreeable enough, amused and perplexed at the castle’s sway over its master. He’d seen it go both ways by now. There wasn’t a clear dominance in favour of either Yuri or the castle, outside of the castle’s reluctance to allow either one of them outdoors that first day. Victor stepped up to the door, reaching for one handle. “Lonely when it’s just you, too. I don’t think I’d like eating in someplace that open on my own. Good thing neither one of us will have to endure that tonight.” He flashed Yuri a smile, rewarded with a small, almost certain canine grin in return. Victor tipped his head toward the door, starting to push down on the handle. “Shall we?”

Yuri’s smile strengthened. The reminder that most his life here has been lonely and soon would be again wasn’t welcome, but it was accepted. Victor was right about that, and he was right about tonight. Neither one of them had to endure the loneliness on their own. 

He reached for the other handle, and they pushed down and in, letting themselves into the beautifully lit room that lay beyond. Makkachin trotted past the both of them, heading for the table and the covered dishes set in the middle of it. Victor slowed to a stop within arm’s reach of the table, eyes wide as he took in the whole of the dining room. 

Crystal chandeliers hung over the table, three meters overhead, reflecting light off the rich wood panel floors and the vivid white and cream of the painted walls. Light aqua outlined each section between the windows hung with draperies, pulled back to reveal the darkened night beyond the glass. Moldings decorated the broad panels of each wall: reflecting the four seasons, pinecones and snowbirds on the North wall, sunflowers and firebirds on the South. To the East, flowers still caught in their budding stage, twined around each other, reaching for an unstated sun. To the West, grapes on the vine, trailing down as the homage to autumn. Across the tops of it all there was a forest curving and reaching for the ceiling, a confusion of details that had Victor looking up in quiet awe and consideration. Everything was in white, from the hart he spotted peering around the trunk of an evergreen, to the hare he saw bolting with a fox close on its tail.

Foxes, it seemed, were interwoven throughout: running, leaping, sleeping, playing, loving, though in less explicit ways than he almost expected. There was a certain joy and celebration that tracked with the seasons across the top of the room, shadows cast by the light making the moldings appear almost alive, flickering and shifting despite the steady burn of the chandeliers.

“Wow,” he said at last, a soft exclamation that turned into a low whistle of appreciation, turning slowly to follow the riot of movement in the moldings. “This is incredible! I’ve never seen anything quite like it, not even before...” He left the thought unfinished, shaking his head. “Amazing.”

Yuri watched Victor’s reaction, smiling at the wonder he saw there, heart skipping a beat as Victor whistled. While the castle was nothing of his own creation, he still felt some measure of pride in being able to share this forgotten beauty with someone other than his haunts. Victor made for a compelling audience. “It’s beautiful,” he agreed, still watching Victor. When their eyes met, he looked away, swallowing with a suddenly dry mouth. Yuri’s eyes skimmed over familiar details, taking them in again as if he could see them for the first time. The light of the chandeliers was so different from the sunlight he was used to, giving everything an almost magical quality. Almost romantic, but his mind shied away from the implication, and he jarred himself into motion, starting for the chair located at the far end of the linen covered table.

Victor left off examining the walls as Yuri moved away, scanning the table for any other chair. When he found it at the absolute opposite end of the table from Yuri, he raised his eyebrows. “Huh,” he said to no one in particular. Makkachin had her chin resting on the table, staring hopefully at a platter that lifted just above the level of her nose. Victor patted her haunches as he walked past, heading for the chair at the far end of the table. She whined and wagged her tail, maintaining her vigilance on the central platters.

Victor pulled the chair out from the table, picking up the armless chair by the wood carved back. He walked it down the length of the table, past the laden platters, past Makkachin, until he was setting it down at the corner by Yuri. His erstwhile host watched in bemusement, head canting to the side. His ears twitched as the chair was placed back on the floor with a series of neat, clear _clicks_.

“Didn’t like your view from the far end?”

Victor smiled, resting his hands on the carved back of his chair. “Candles and platters don’t have the same charm as your company.” He winked, Yuri snorting and looking pointedly away, trying to ignore the pang he felt at the words. Was it flattering? Painful? Oblivious, Victor continued on. “And while I’m not opposed to shouting, it feels like a poor means of carrying on conversation.”

“Exactly how much eating you’re expecting to do around mouthfuls of food…”

“Hah! I can speak around mouthfuls. I managed the last few nights just fine, and you did fairly well yourself.” Victor leaned back, peering down the length of the table again, and smiled a touch more ruefully than before. “Though I still need to collect my plate. Meet you in the middle?”

Yuri picked up his own plate, pressing it firmly into Victor’s chest. When his hands came up to grab hold of the edges, Yuri let go, ears perking forward as he nodded toward the platters. “I may be a poor host in some respects, but I can manage to see my guest served before myself.” He made a shooing motion, earning a blink and a snort from Victor before he obligingly headed toward the platters, calling back behind him.

“My, my, Yuri! So forceful! What can I do but accept your generosity?” He peered over at one of the trays, Makkachin bumping against Victor’s leg with a hopeful sniff. Resting the knuckle of his index finger against his chin, humming in the back of his throat. “Ooh, what are the little baked things?” 

The collection of dishes favoured a few of the winter vegetables and dipping sauces; puff mini pastries stuffed with potatoes and carrots and topped with cheese; flat bread with bowls of toppings; deep-fried breaded balls of rice stuffed with beef, tomato sauce, cheese, and peas; a soup tureen filled with rice carrying a strong scent of jasmine; grilled strips chicken slathered in a thick, nutty sauce; strips of beef seared and tossed with peppers, herbs, onions, mint, and basil leaves; a thick almost stew with strips of beef, onion, cashews, potatoes, more bay leaves, cinnamon, anise, cardamom, and something Victor couldn’t identify. It was almost creamy, but in a different way than he would have expected any cream based soup or stew to taste.

His attempts to feed Yuri one of the deep-fried rice-balls gets pointedly refused, Yuri giving Victor a mute stare of disbelief with the ball held up to his nose. He pulled his head back, ears tilting out to either side of his head; Victor shrugged, popping the rice-ball into his own mouth to Yuri’s startled yip. He laughed after, and conversation resumed. Peppered between sampling dishes more unfamiliar than familiar, they talked about the weather, winter storms they remembered, stories about wolves, both fair and foul. They talked about the ease of moving around the castle with the weight of the magical energy dissipated. Victor attempted to bring up the subject of his concern from the night before, but each attempt was outright ignored by Yuri. He stopped after the third time that Yuri reached for the mead instead of answering his inquiry, draining his cup dry. 

“Wow, you’re really enjoying the mead tonight.”

Yuri paused in his licking of his snout, capturing the remaining dregs of his lapped up beverage with his tongue. “Why not?” He said, almost defensive, ears tipped backward. “I made it. The honey comes from the hives on the estate.”

That confession took Victor by surprise, leading to a turn in conversation where Yuri reluctantly revealed bits and pieces of his activities around the estate in the years of his solitude. He’d read, he’d played instruments, but the piano on its own left him feeling melancholy. He’d taken to trying to tame the gardens in the brief, beautiful summers here, picking up tending to the hives and doing some light gardening. He pickled his stores and had managed to prune down a few of the trees in the orchard, but the majority were still overgrown and lost to the wildlife that made the estate their home. 

Yuri didn’t speak much about his magic, despite the fact they were both aware he had it. If anything, he talked about everything else; even mentioned forays into the forest to find wild roses and bring them back to transplant into his greenhouses. The success of his flowers was his pride and joy, easy enough to see between the light that came to his eyes and the animation in his features when he talked about them. It led back around to the discussion of the blue rose, and while Victor tapered off to sipping at tea, Yuri kept topping off his glass of mead. It was impressive. It was also somewhat concerning.

Victor leaned forward on his elbow, casually reaching out to pull the bottled mead closer to him, casually taking it further from Yuri. He’d finished off once. A second seemed excessive, even if he was managing to hold his alcohol better than Victor would have believed.

“The thing is, Victor, are you listening?”

Victor glanced back to Yuri, nodding his head. “Yes, of course. You were talking about the… greenhouse?”

Yuri paused, squinting his eyes. He tried to rub the bridge of his muzzle, running into his glasses with a sort of befuddled squint. Twitching his nose, he growled deep in his throat and pulled at the clips holding his glasses in place. They came free, taking stray black and silver hairs with them. Yuri set them on the table and rubbed his hands over his eyes. “The greenhouse, the greenhouse… Yes. Yes! I’ve gotta show you. It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful. It’ll be double beautiful.” He dropped his hands onto the table, pushing back in his chair and swaying to his feet. Once there, he started pulling at his belt, tugging the knot loose until he could slip it off and toss it over the seat of the chair he’d just vacated.

Victor lifted his eyebrows, laughing light and under his breath. Had Yuri just…? “I don’t think that’d be a great idea right now,” he confessed, scooting back in his chair so he could likewise stand. “It’d be harder to see at night, wouldn’t it? You can show me in the morning.” When it looked like Yuri was about to object, taking a step closer and squinting at Victor with a dejected cast to his ears, Victor was quick to clarify. “I’d love to see your work. Just in the morning, okay?”

Yuri continued to squint, a delay in understanding meaning his smile was a beat late in response. Then he beamed, overcoat flapping open as he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Victor in a hug that forced the air out of Victor’s lungs, it was so tight. “You’re _brilliant_. Brilliant. Victor,” Yuri said, sighing against the side of Victor’s neck. Victor wheezed out a, “Yuri,” but Yuri didn’t really seem to be listening. He breathed in deep, sounding suspiciously like he was sniffing Victor. He loosened his hold on Victor to lean back, squinting until he brought his face close enough to see Victor clearly. His nose was almost touching Victor’s. “ _Victor._ I want to dance. I want you to show me how to dance again.”

Victor breathed in deep, offering Yuri a puzzled look as air flooded back into his lungs. “What?”

“Dance. I’ve seen you dancing, you know? You know, you were there. In the ballroom, before… before. With the horse.” Yuri nodded, arms still encircling Victor’s chest. Victor’s hands felt useless at his sides, his shoulders hunched up toward his ears. He hadn’t expected the contact, but it wasn’t precisely unwelcome. A surprise, as much as Yuri’s request was; Victor felt his heart beating faster in his chest. 

“Yes, but I…”

“I can be good,” Yuri said, interrupting. “It’s the magic, that I’m not so good with. I know the dancing, the dancing, it’s the body. You move,” he said, arms coming up to drape over Victor’s shoulders, Yuri fixing him with a very serious, very drunk stare. His ears were both pointed forward, unmoving. “You move to the music, let it it move through you. _Victor_.”

“Yuri, I don’t mind, but —”

Yuri’s brown eyes widened into such a look of pure happiness that Victor felt his breath catch in his throat. _Oh_ , he thought, even as Yuri moved his arms again, picking Victor up and bodily spinning him around in a circle with a spontaneous, unfettered laugh. Victor was helpless against laughing in turn, not sure what else to do, half afraid of falling, half afraid he was already starting to fall. 

_Oh._

“Yuri, I’m, are you even listening?” He laughed as he was set back on his feet, Yuri beaming at him. Even the sight of canines as large as his flashing right by his face barely made Victor blink, hands coming up to catch at Yuri’s elbows as he pulled back, anchoring him in place. “Yuri, you realise I’d have to stay to teach you anything, and according to Yakov, I’m hopeless when it comes to instruction.”

Yuri was nodding, then shaking his head, then puzzling over what motion he wanted. He settled on grasping Victor’s arms in turn, leaning in to keep his focus on Victor’s face. “Then stay. Please stay. Stay and show me how to do what you do. _Teach_ me. I want to move like you do, with the magic, like you do.” He went still, a thought striking him, and then he started to move, tugging Victor along with him. “Dance with me, Victor. Right now. I’ll show you. I _challenge_ you to say yes”

He gave Victor such a look of determination that Victor felt himself smiling in a very different way in return. It was strange that here in the middle of an enchanted castle stuck in the winter landscape away from everyone and most everything he knew, he was finding a spark of emotion that’s been missing for a long time. Inspiration, and a desire to do more than exist. A desire to rise to a ridiculous challenge; a reason to smile and laugh and feel it more than skin deep.

When Yuri’s hand slipped down along Victor’s arm, the thicker calluses of his palm pads pulling at the material of Victor’s borrowed tunic, Victor rolled his wrist and took Yuri’s hand in his. He flashed him a smile more teeth than lips, letting his own challenge show in the way he cocked his head to the side, nodding forward. _Show me why I should say yes._ Makkachin trailed along after them, wagging her tail and barking as they crashed through the doors across the way, spilling into the unlit ballroom. Overhead, witchlights winked into being one by one, chasing the shadows to the far corners of the room. 

Yuri came to a stop, twirling Victor around by his hand. “Music,” he said, laughing and leading Victor into the start of a simple box waltz. “We need music — castle?”

“What, is your castle going to be our own personal quartet? Better yet, a personal orchestra?”

Yuri smiled, laughing under his breath. “No, don’t be silly. It’s going to play one of the crystal recordings for us.”

“The crystal — you _have_ those?” Victor couldn’t help sounding surprised. From the casual way Yuri was speaking, it sounded like he had a collection of crystal recordings here, something that Victor had only run into in public collections at city libraries, or amoung the very rich. Then again, he supposed the castle, if not Yuri, _was_ rich on its own. Why wouldn’t there be a collection of ridiculously expensive musical recordings here? Ones that would work even during the worst magic surges? “Of course you’d have crystal recordings.”

“It’s one of the hidden gems in this place. See? Another reason you should stay.” He let go of Victor for the moment, taking a step back as the music began to play, the acoustics of the room carrying it throughout. He flashed Victor a smile, shrugging out of his overcoat and tossing it to the side. Then he swept into a bow, steady on his feet, tail in a straight line following his spine. When he straightened back up, he held out his hand to Victor, ears forward, tendrils of hair framing either side of his furry face with his too bright eyes.

“Now you’re trying outright bribery,” Victor said, lips twitching up into a smile in spite of himself as he took Yuri’s outstretched hand. He turned to walk with Yuri, side by side, letting the other man lead him onward toward the center of the ballroom floor. 

“Maybe,” Yuri admitted, listening to the music as it flowed through its opening. “Is it working?”

Victor’s only answer was a smile.

Then the melody started in earnest, Victor’s hand finding Yuri’s shoulder, feeling Yuri’s hand at his upper back. He was used to switching, taking the lead or being the one who followed, but with a new partner, and one as inebriated as Yuri had to be, he was expecting more missteps than correct ones.

He learned very shortly he was wrong. Yuri was remarkably coordinated, and Victor found himself far from fighting the direction, instead responding to the suggestions behind Yuri’s lead. He was laughing without realising, spinning around and coming to a stop before their free hands joined and Yuri stepped him backward, to the side, to the side, around, and spin. Their joined hands dipped toward the floor at some point, before they spun around and repeated the motion facing the opposite side of the ballroom.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had fun with this. Even the sense of magic, weak now compared to the days before, was warm as Yuri spun him in, their eyes meeting over Victor’s right shoulder.

Yuri smiled, and he laughed, the oddity of the way he sounded feeling more and more normal as they grew more breathless, keeping up with each other and the momentum of the song. Victor hadn’t waltzed like this in years; uncaring of an audience, responding to his partner and the music and the featherlight touch of the magic around them. He didn’t reach out to it, reveling in the feeling of its energy against his skin, against _Yuri_ , finding his eyes drawn to his partner’s face, unable and unwilling to look away.

The music moved through both of them, Victor not missing a beat as Yuri twirled him under an arm, spinning him around to catch him again and move them both around again. Even the way he moved, his legs positioned differently than Victor was used to, had its own elegance. Yuri had learned how to move as he was years ago. Why had he stopped dancing?

_The magic,_ he’d said. Victor puzzled over that until Yuri signaled a lift, dipping their joined hands down and bracing before Victor was lifted off the ground, beaming as he touched down on the ground again. Yuri beamed back, as much as he could with his muzzle, showing teeth and a glimpse of his tongue. It was surprisingly endearing, as as Yuri supported and spun him through another lift, Victor found it charming as well. The way Yuri’s eyes almost seemed to form half moons in his pleased happiness, that Victor felt he must look the same, it was all surprising, all leaving him feeling both wonderful and wondering.

He had no idea how long they danced, under the steady fire of the witchlights, the music swelling all around them, carrying them along as surely as water would. They flowed across the ballroom floor, turning and circling, Victor stepping under Yuri’s arm, spinning back around and out again. 

The music wound to a close. Yuri let go of Victor’s hand, dipping him back, one arm supporting him across his shoulders, the other finding its way to his side. Victor kept his own arm pressed tight against Yuri, hand curled around to hold on to his shoulder. His free arm was thrown overhead, fingers pointing toward the far wall. His left leg was held straight out from his body, toes pointed, ball of his foot resting on the floor.

They were looking into each other’s eyes, smiling and breathing harder than they should. The magic curled around their ankles, responding to potential, called to a task without a purpose or further guidance. Victor had no idea if he could teach Yuri anything, but he could show him what he knew, what to do with the magic, how to call and hold it and be a conduit, how to let it leave.

He was very reluctant to leave. 

Yuri pulled him up to his feet, hand staying at Victor’s back. He was beaming, almost glowing under everything, wavering and leaning forward until he was resting against Victor, chest to chest, chin hooked over his shoulder. He sighed, sounding content. “Will you stay?”

There were a thousand reasons to say no. More, probably: Victor knew his memory wasn’t his most infallible trait. Instead of answer, he asked a question of his own.

“How did you end up like this, Yuri?”

The man resting on his shoulder was quiet for a long moment, breathing in deep, breathing out in an unsteady sigh. He sounded sad and angry, closer to tears, fingers pressing into Victor’s back as he answered.

“I refused to dance.”

Victor held himself still, brow furrowing. He brought his hand up to rest at the back of Yuri’s head, feeling hair and fur under his palm. Not understanding, but desperately wanting to understand what he meant.

“Refused to dance? For someone, at some event…?”

Yuri drew in a shuddering breath, moving his face, pressing against Victor’s neck. Victor shivered at the ticklish feeling, hearing Yuri inhale, nuzzling a little with a low whine sounding in the back of his throat. “For someone who didn’t like hearing no.”

It didn’t make sense. Transformation wasn’t small magic. It took either immense power, or a large number of witches working together, to change someone’s form this permanently, and the feeling of magic around Yuri didn’t have the signature of many individuals working in tandem. Only one, maybe two. Victor found it difficult to concentrate on what his sixth sense could say when his other five were full of Yuri. He could tell this line of questioning was distressing Yuri, eating away at his good humour, but he pressed on, needing to understand.

“Who, Yuri? What someone?”

He was whining now, clearly and audibly. Victor didn’t know what to do, stroking his thumb over Yuri’s hair and holding still, a rock for him to lean against. It was a switch in mood from moments before, and Yuri didn’t seem to like it any better than Victor did. He supposed he regretted that, but not the pushing. Not the attempt at understanding a portion of the mystery of Yuri and his castle and the magic that surrounded them both.

“An Old One. One of the Friendly Neighbours.” Yuri pulled back, ears pressed flat against his skull. Victor’s hand fell away from his head, settling in a loose grip around Yuri’s upper arm. “I’m tired,” he announced, “And I think... I’m gonna vomit.”

Victor’s eyes widened. He barely managed to whisk Yuri into the nearest bathroom in time, helpfully holding back his hair as he proved his prediction true. Victor shoved any further questions to the back of his mind, ending up half carrying Yuri up the stairs as he coaxed him along toward his suite of rooms. He remembered the way, though the urgency and fear that chased him down this hall the night before was absent. Without it goading him on, it seemed so much further to walk, the walls covered in paintings and tapestries, one of a hunt, another of a bird burning brilliant in multicolour flames. 

Yuri tried to lay down outside the threshold to his bedchamber, Victor finally managing to convince him to stand more or less upright for long enough that Victor could sweep him up in his arms. It was awkward carrying him across the threshold, Yuri a surprisingly solid presence, but with him not fighting Victor and his tail caught up in Victor’s arms along with the rest of him, it was less difficult than it could have been. Victor managed to make it to Yuri’s bed and settle him down without dropping him. 

Water was already waiting in a bowl to the side of the bed. Victor eyed it, then looked back to Yuri, who’d proceeded to roll himself on his side and lie limp against his comforter. Victor was tempted to leave him like that, maybe toss half the comforter over him, but he could remember nights of drinking too much and any one of his troupemates being on duty to make sure he wasn’t a total wreck. Thankfully, all before Yura had been part of their group. All before the last five years, actually.

So he bore with unlacing the odd bracers around Yuri’s legs, getting them down past what he thought was probably an ankle, like with Makkachin’s hindquarters. The dog herself was watching from the end of the bed, curious and watching, at some point leaving off to curl up in front of the fire. 

He managed to get Yuri’s breeches off too, leaving him in his smallclothes and his tunic, which seemed not so fine a garment that it couldn’t withstand one evening’s rest. Poking, prodding, and shoving Yuri to the side, Victor managed to eventually get him under the covers, smoothing them out over him with a grimace. It turned into something almost… fond, as he studied Yuri’s sleeping face. Or the closest thing to it. When he reached out to smooth back Yuri’s hair, the man mumbled some protest deep in the back of his throat, burrowing down into his pillow.

“How’s that for gratitude?” Victor smiled, pulling on the comforter to cover Yuri’s shoulder. He’d refused to dance for one of the Old Ones. That took a certain level of stupidity and bravery, from what Victor understood. Moreover, it wasn’t so simple as dancing. It was the end result of being a dance witch that the Old One had been after. The magic that Yuri could call and form to his will, no matter the particular affiliation. The stronger his affinity to any magic, the more tempting he’d have been.

Now he was like this. Furred, alone, but still living. Learning beekeeping and gardening and creating beautiful things, even if he didn’t want to face the rest of the world. There was a strength there to be admired, right alongside a certain level of avoidance Victor didn’t fully understand.

He reached out again, gentle in his touch, brushing the fur of Yuri’s cheek back like he might with Makkachin. Only none of this felt like dealing with his dog. None of this felt like dealing with much of anyone in his realm of experience. Even with his lovers in the past, he’d never felt quite so content simply watching them at rest while sitting at their side.

_Even with my past lovers?_ Victor found himself frowning, straightening up where he sat. That was a thought he wasn’t sober enough to handle, and not drunk enough to accept without question. He set it aside for now, leaving his hand where it lay, cupping the side of Yuri’s face. He still owed him an answer, a reply.

“I’ll stay, Yuri. I didn’t get to answer you earlier, but... I’ll stay.”

Yuri slept on, oblivious, as the foundations of his world continued their inevitable change. Outside in the warm dark of the greenhouse, the petals of the blue rose were slowly unfurling, little by little opening up to face the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay! Life has made writing a juggling act the last few weeks, but at last, I managed to get things to where they felt acceptable. I hope you all enjoy this! It's presently unbeta'd, and I'll be updating when I get that chance, but for now please bear with awkward phrasings and spelling and grammatical errors. After long enough, my eyes slide right past them!
> 
> Next chapter will be taking a look back at what everyone's been up to in the city (things stretched on longer here than I expected), along with how things will be going for Victor and Yuri around the castle. Looks like Victor's starting to make some decisions of his own. I wonder where they'll lead?
> 
> As always, thank you for your kind comments. It's like most authors here say, they're the bread and butter we dine on! I always love hearing from you guys. It's one of the best highlights of my days!
> 
> On a general note, since I enjoy writing one shots every so often as a mental break/for fun, please feel free to leave prompts in comment for me to consider for this series (doesn't need to be with Victor & Yuri) for just about anything at any rating, present or past tense, silly to AU to fluff to serious!


	7. in which victor starts training yuri, and they both end up fighting wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “About what?” Yuri wiped the back of one hand across his forehead, brushing stray tendrils of hair out of his eyes. He had his glasses on right then. It tended to change from moment to moment.
> 
> “Desire,” Victor said, tapping his foot on the ground. “When you guide the magic, you have to _want_ to give it a purpose, a function. Water flows and forms to the shape of the container it’s poured into. Like the mug, like the hot springs. With magic, our wants give it that form.” It worked for each element and for different sorts of inherent magics as well, but with water being Yuri’s, it was easiest to frame it in those terms alone. “In this case, what’s your strongest desire?”
> 
> Yuri’s ears were splayed out to either side of his head. “For the water to move. From where it is in the mug to here, where I’m standing.”
> 
> Victor nodded, stepping closer. “You know what you want it to do. Now you have to guide it toward that desire.” He paused, reaching up to rest his index finger against his lips. What kind of comparison could he give to help Yuri connect with the emotion? “Imagine a time when you desired for your lover to kiss you —”

Yuri woke up feeling dry mouthed and like a pack of Makkachins were thundering through his head. His curtains were thankfully blocking out most the light seeking a way in through the windows. Yuri groaned and curled into his blankets, shoving his face into his pillow and grimacing. The world could wait, preferably a decade or so. Everything would stop mattering by then, wouldn’t it? His headache, the blue rose, Victor...

His nose poked back out of his comforter, inhaling the cool air. The temptation to malinger in bed was immense. He still forced himself to wiggle to the side of the bed, noting as he reluctantly pulled the comforter back off himself that he’d managed to sleep in his tunic from the night before. Which smelled better than he expected, he noted, pulling it over his head with a wince.

Everything ached. He was fairly sure even his _toes_ ached, though as he stretched them out and massaged between the digits, they started feeling better. What in the world had he gotten up to last night? He hoped it wasn’t too mortifying. Even if it was, would it matter once the wolves were no longer at his door? Not really, he reasoned. Victor would leave, this would be put behind them, and then, breakfast.

His thoughts didn’t flow quite like they should, and food didn’t actually sound appealing, but he knew he’d benefit from hydrating and getting something plain down regardless. Shrugging into his robe, he tied it off around his waist. He considered pulling his hair back into its usual queue, but it felt like effort and a further headache to bother, so he left his hair loose. The mess of it spilled down the back of his neck and around the front of his ears, framing his already furry face with hair on top of the rest. Mornings like these he felt like a walking furball.

His tail was caught under his robe, a slightly discomforting feeling he’d had years of practice ignoring. Stumbling down the stairs, squinting at every patch of light he encountered, Yuri was a grumbling mess of twitches and winces and sighs heading for the breakfast room. Oatmeal? It didn’t sound appealing. Sausage? More appealing, but not quite the time. He was still pondering what he actually wanted in the first place when he stepped into the room, catching sight of an empty chair and a folded napkin where Victor had been.

He stood there at the threshold, staring at the empty space at his table. He’d already felt nauseated, but this was even worse, the pit of his stomach dropping low enough he almost had to sit down to catch up. He shook his head, instantly regretting it, turning away to stalk to the side table with everything laid out. Three eggs: uncooked, he found, once he lifted one. Two rice bowls next to the covered pot. Yuri’s ears perked forward in interest, shoving away the mess of other feelings and serving himself rice. Sauteed onions chopped into bite sized morsels went on top, followed by whatever else caught Yuri’s eye. He took the rice and one of the raw eggs to the table, setting them down before returning for water.

He squinted at the _hashi_ left out, wondering if he’d be able to manage them today. His hands seemed willing to cooperate in spite of his head, and so it was after cracking the egg over the divot he’d made in his rice that Yuri settled in to eating.

Makkachin bounded into the room when he was close to finished, shoving her head under his arm and wagging her tail. Her hopeful sniffings at the table were enough to stir him into fondly shoving her head away with a grunt, words unnecessary. He could hear the slap of bare feet on stone as Victor jogged in not long after, hair perfectly wind tousled, cheeks and the tip of his nose bright with colour. He flashed Yuri a smile as he swept past, tossing his folded scarf over the back of the chair closest to Yuri.

“Morning!” he said, cheerful and just shy of obnoxiously loud. Yuri’s ears twitched, but he didn’t flinch. He was feeling better in degrees now compared to earlier.

“Mm.” _Gradual_ degrees.

Victor didn’t mind, pouring himself a cup of tea before he sat down at the table. His knee bumped against Yuri’s under the table, provoking another ear flick on Yuri’s part. Victor didn’t move his leg. Slowly, Yuri did, all as he stretched his legs and tried stifling a yawn. The pounding in his head was down to manageable levels. Stretching by now felt luxurious.

“How’s your head treating you?” Victor was still smiling, a little absently fond as he looked over to Makkachin, resting her chin on the table. Her tail wagged slowly behind her, ears perked up in her perpetual hope for reward. “Makkachin, off the table.” The dog sighed before reluctantly pulling her head away.

Yuri closed his eyes, breathing in through his nose, then out through his mouth. “Aches,” he admitted, eyes opening again. “Not so bad.”

Victor nodded, scooping a spoonful of sugar before tipping it all into his tea. He squinted into his cup, then added another spoonful of sugar. “Good. The food’s helping?”

Yuri glanced down, shrugging his shoulders. It was, if he were honest, but it felt like admitting that was too large, especially as they were skirting around Yuri getting sloshed and passing out at some point last night. “I think so. Look, Victor, about last night…”

Victor perked up, watching Yuri over the lip of his cup. Yuri pushed on despite his trepidation. He had to apologise for drinking as much as he had, then stumbling off to bed to pass out.

“I didn’t mean to get so carried away. I’m not the best host in the first place, but behaviour like that is really…” He lifted his hands, making a vague, rolling gesture as he looked for a word that would suffice. “Inexcusable?”

Victor’s eyebrows were slowly hiking up, his expression somewhere between amused and disbelieving. For the most part, he couldn’t see anything that Yuri did the night before as being inexcusable, not from the drinking to the dancing to asking Victor to stay on, as an instructor or whatever it was he’d been looking for. Even the immediate end to dancing hadn’t been inexcusable. Unfortunate, yes, but Victor wasn’t going to throw stones about exceeding ones limits every so often. 

His silence only served to make Yuri nervous. “I didn’t mean to be insulting, and I’m sorry that things ended so suddenly,” he said, presuming it had to have when his last clear memory was finishing off another mug of honey mead, “I hope I didn’t ruin the evening for you. Especially when things keep coming up, like the whole mess with the wolves…”

He trailed off, hands falling down into his lap. He didn’t know what he expected from Victor, but he was already hunching his shoulders in preparation for whatever came next.

Victor set down his cup of tea and gave Yuri a faintly baffled look. He spoke slowly in order to be as clear as possible. “Yuri, do you regret what happened last night?”

Yuri hesitated before answering, fingers fussing with the material of his tunic. His ears pressed out toward the side, tendrils of hair shifting to fall past them, further framing his face. He hated it. He hated having longer hair, but most the time he wore it back, and he didn’t like cutting it himself any better. “No?” He hated that he sounded unsure. “Everything was nice up until, well, you know.” Until Yuri was too drunk to function, probably. Victor hadn’t mentioned anything more, and by now, surely he would have. Surely he’d —

“Good.” Victor’s statement was followed by a bright smile, tea cupped in his hands once again. “I had a lovely evening.” Another statement delivered without any hint of mockery.

Yuri stared, blinking rapidly, both ears swiveling forward. “Really?”

Victor nodded. “Really.” He took a sip of his sweetened tea. Yuri’s apparent confusion didn’t exactly make sense to Victor, but at least he didn’t look as apologetic. Somehow the apologies only made Victor feel down. He didn’t want to feel down. There was enough in life to try and wear on a person. He preferred not to linger on any of it when he could help it. 

“Oh.” Yuri glanced down at his hands, then up again, not quite meeting Victor’s gaze. Instead he reached for his bowl, pulling it closer before he made to stand.

Victor found himself frowning. “I’ve been considering what you said,” he started, turning his own eyes down to examine the surface of his tea. His eyes came back up to catch Yuri’s. “I’ll be staying.”

The declaration took Yuri by surprise, eyes widening as the words sunk in. His mouth dropped open, a strangled sound of confusion catching at the back of his throat, but Victor wasn’t done.

“And as of this afternoon, I’ll be mentoring you in the art of dance as a focus for your water magic. Do you prefer working in the greenhouses in the morning or the afternoon, generally speaking?”

Yuri stared, uncomprehending, waiting for Victor to finish his punchline. He didn’t. In fact, he seemed to be waiting on Yuri to actually respond; Yuri, who couldn’t find any words past a sharp inhalation. When he finally found some kind of response, it came out as a shout. “ _What?!_ ”

Victor blinked, canting his head to the side, an affectation that Makkachin shared in the moment. Both sets of eyes watched Yuri looking equally confused by his response. “Do you generally prefer working in the greenhouses in the morning or the afternoon?”

Yuri left his bowl sitting on the table, arms held up and in front of him, palms facing Victor. He needed him to slow down and stop, to give Yuri time to process. Confusion left him quivering in barely contained fight or flight response. Only what the hell would he be fighting? “Morning for the light, but that’s not what, I’m not — you’re going to be my _dance_ instructor?”

Victor gave him a brilliant smile, looking particularly pleased with himself. Victor could tell it’d taken Yuri by surprise that he was taking him up on his offer. It surprised Victor too, but after last night... “Instructor, mentor, whatever applies.” He set down his cup, pushing back out of his chair and rising to his feet. “I still don’t understand the flux in magic here, but I didn’t get the impression that you were siphoning any of that magic off before it hit its peak. There’s a good chance that between two active witches, we’ll be able to help keep things from getting that bad again.” His smile became something more sedate, eyes serious as he regarded Yuri. 

It wasn’t only the request of an inebriated man living under a curse. It wasn’t only the fact Victor felt himself drawn to Yuri, geas incited or otherwise. By now he suspected _otherwise_ , though he had hardly been testing the geas itself, not after that first day. It was also the pressure of the magic that had been caught up on the estate. It was the way it’d crescendoed, swept over and through the castle, chilling and restoring before it was gone. It was the fact it happened in the first place.

He may or may not be able to solve Yuri’s personal mystery, or the mystery of his curse. What he’d have a better chance of solving was the mystery behind the stoppered flow of magic. It wasn’t a direct correlation, but as someone with natural affinity for water based magics, he could understand guiding and manipulating flows in ways that perhaps only those who worked with air might also understand. 

Yuri was a water witch. He could dance, and he had to be using magic in some capacity; for witches it was next to impossible to _not_ handle magic, even subconsciously, if they were neglecting conscious use. Victor suspected most of what Yuri did was in the greenhouses. Part of why he wanted to see them, aside from his curiosity and love of all things beautiful, was to verify his suspicion. Yuri would be able to help if he knew what to do. He’d be able to bring his strengths to play alongside Victor’s. Victor believed that from the depths of his soul.

Drunk or not, Yuri had asked for his help, and Victor had taken his hand, literally and otherwise. He wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon. 

Yuri stood still, staring wide eyed at Victor even after he’d stopped speaking. His mouth had closed, leaving him looking a little less stunned, but his ears were still pointed backward. When he did speak, it was with a squeak in his voice that disappeared as he kept talking. “Dancing. You really think it could help? We might be able to make it a little less overwhelming?”

Victor could hear the thin, fragile hope in Yuri’s voice. He kept his gaze level, eyes serious in spite of the slight upcurl to his lips. Even that smoothed out by the time he was speaking. “If we’re working together, we will.” He was honest by nature, holding out his hand, fingers splayed and inviting Yuri to take hold. “That doesn’t mean it goes away, or we stop it completely, or anything like that. But two witches working together to smooth out the knot of magic this place ends up becoming _will_ help.”

Makkachin snuck toward the side table while Yuri watched Victor, one ear swiveling forward, then back out to the side. Did he want to trust in Victor’s confidence? He was a capable and powerful witch, Yuri didn’t deny that. But Yuri wasn’t, and Victor was asking for him to help anyway? He couldn’t imagine being any kind of help when he was so out of practise. 

He breathed in, reigning in his thoughts best as he could. He reached out, taking Victor’s hand. “Well… it can’t be worse than not trying, right? I’d hate to give up on something I haven’t even tried yet.” He smiled, not sure he believed himself, and Victor smiled back, keeping hold of Yuri’s hand. They didn’t shake: just clasped hands, eyes meeting. Victor nodded, and Yuri found himself nodding in return. He leaned in imperceptibly, almost believing Victor did too. 

A crash at the side table interrupted them, leading both to jerking their heads around to stare at the source of the commotion. Makkachin backed away from the table with her tail low between her legs, a wedge of bread in her mouth. Quick as could be, she darted around the far end of the table. The silver platter and the rest of its contents were on the floor.

“Makkachin!” They called out at the same time, Victor sounding exasperated, Yuri surprised. Victor paused, Yuri glancing his way, and then they were both laughing. Tension and whatever else had been lingering between them dissipated.

They cleaned up the bread together, Makkachin forced to let go of her purloined breakfast and sighing heavily from where she watched them lying down on the floor. 

* * *

“Where do you keep the crystal recordings?”

Yuri flicked an ear in Victor’s direction, tipping his head to the side. He couldn’t remember when he mentioned anything about crystal recordings, but as he relented and nudged the towel resting folded on top of his head to the side, he squinted at Victor through the steam of the hot spring. He still wasn’t sure how the hell this had happened, but when Victor had refused to be driven off by polite suggestions or a snapped remark, Yuri had resigned himself to sporting a drowned dog look in front of the unreasonably attractive man.

He sighed, both glad and mildly disappointed that he couldn’t see the other man as well as he wished. He had no doubt Victor wore “damp” well. “They’re on the second floor of the library tower. Why?”

Victor leaned forward, palms of his hands resting on the stone shelf he was seated on. His eyes lit up with interest at the answer, ignoring the return question for the time being. “There’s a library tower?”

“Over closer to the ballroom, actually.” He was surprised Victor hadn’t already stumbled across it given how he’d been poking his nose around everywhere for days. “I can show you after we’re dried off?”

Victor scooted closer, nodding his head. “Yes, please! Though Yuri, you’ve been holding important information back from me. A whole tower filled with a library of books _and_ crystal recordings?”

Yuri tucked his chin in, ears tipped back. Why was Victor coming closer? “Not on purpose. I didn’t think you’d be staying long enough for it to matter.”

“Hardly convincing considering you were expecting Yakov to stay for forever, as far as I could tell.” Victor sounded far too cheerful, reaching out to nudge Yuri’s foot with his own. Yuri blinked in confusion, politely moving his foot a little further out of the way. Victor was making himself a nuisance; not that Yuri found he much minded. It was weird that he was voluntarily coming closer, but the longer he was spending around Victor, the less weird his almost whimsical actions felt.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone to stay _forever_ , just long enough to figure out what he could pay me back for the damage he’d done.” Victor’s knee brushed against Yuri’s, leading him into a startled inhalation. He threw a confused look at Victor’s face. Just what in the world kind of game was he playing? 

“For a rose?” There was no tease in Victor’s voice, only curiosity. 

Yuri was trying hard to stay focused, especially when Victor was leaning in to nudge his shoulder against Yuri’s. Was this how he bathed with everyone?! How did anyone survive it?

“Um, yes? I wasn’t… It wasn’t a good time.” His ears came forward, lifting his chin and frowning at Victor. “Besides, he should have _asked_ , not helped himself. He wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near the greenhouses. It’s the opposite direction from the front door!”

“I’ve wondered about that,” Victor said, leaning back to rest against the lip of the pool. He sighed, looking through the steam and out the windows on the far side. The winter landscape beyond was an assortment of blinding whites and lighter blues, deepening to navies and blacks in the shadows and where trunks of distant trees stood out stark against their backdrops. “Have you considered that it might not have been an accident?”

He snorted, lifting a hand and flicking water droplets off his claws. “Considering the rose didn’t just fall into Yakov’s hand, yes, I’ve considered the whole encounter anything but an accident.”

Victor pulled his gaze back from the far off point it’d been fixed on, turning his face to study Yuri’s in profile. He nudged his shoulder against Yuri’s once more, shaking his head. “No, that’s not what I meant. I’m talking about how Yakov ended up in your greenhouses. Have you considered the fact he might have been herded there?”

Yuri’s initial reaction was to say no, he hadn’t considered it, and no, there wasn’t any reason to consider that might have been the case. He made himself hold his tongue, questioning instead why Victor was asking him in the first place. His response was slow, deliberating as he spoke. “Have you felt like you’ve been herded around the castle?”

“In some form or another, yes. Not all the time, but I remember doors refusing to open, and others practically opening themselves.” He quirked an eyebrow up at Yuri, raking his damp bangs back off his forehead. “The castle’s chosen outfits for me, dictated where we’re eating, and who knows what else. It helped heal Philua. Speaking of, we should start taking him out for exercise, but that’s not the point.” Victor waved his hand in front of his face, brushing his other concern to the side for addressing later. “The point is your castle has a mind of its own, and Yakov is not so directionally challenged that I’d expect him to get lost trying to locate the front entrance.”

Listening along, Yuri found himself nodding idly to the mention of Philua, reaching up to pull the folded towel off his head entirely as the rest bounced around in his head. He wanted to deny it, but he knew the castle had its own sense of priorities, and countless creative ways of making itself heard. He just couldn’t see the benefit of the castle funneling someone to the _greenhouse_. There was no way to know that Yakov would have touched any of the flowers, let alone picked the blue rose. “I guess it’s possible, but why? There’s no way the castle prompted him to pick the rose. You told me it was your request, right? The castle couldn’t know that.”

“Unless Yakov mentioned it, or it figured he’d be tempted by _something_ once he was out there.” Victor angled himself to be facing Yuri’s side, taking in the towel that Yuri was wringing between his hands, held above the level of the water. Victor brought the palms of his hands together in front of his face, resting the sides of his fingertips against his nose. He gave Yuri his best attempt at a beseeching look, borrowed from half a lifetime of watching Makkachin use the very same look on him over extra tidbits around mealtime. “Yuri, please take me to see your greenhouses. I feel like it’s an important part of the puzzle behind all this,” he said, letting his hands drop down to the level of his chin. “Behind everything going on with you.”

It was so tempting to say yes. The look in Victor’s eyes pulled at Yuri’s heart, leaving it pounding painfully hard in his chest. He was glad his blushes couldn’t be seen, one upside to being a furred beast. It didn’t stop the uncertain tilt to his ears, or the way his brow furrowed and made the whiskers over his eyes shiver in contained energy. “I…”

Victor reached out, carefully folding his hands around Yuri’s where they held onto his towel. His grip was firm, eyes searching. “Yuri. Please.”

Yuri averted his gaze, refusal caught in his throat. The strength in Victor’s grip was almost surprising, reassuring in a way Yuri didn’t know if he could trust. For all Victor had said earlier that day he believed the two of them could affect the buildup and release of magic on the estate before the next new moon rolled around, this was something else. Something even more personal. “Victor… it doesn’t have anything to do with the curse.”

Victor tugged on his hands, bringing them closer to Victor’s chest. “So tell me what does. What is this curse?”

He was scared in that moment, feeling close to the edge of something he didn’t fully want to understand. His heart had already decided on what it wanted, but that didn’t make it love; it felt painful to admit to Victor the impossible cruelty of his situation. Even more so when Victor was the first person Yuri’d spent any decent time around in years, rounding in at an astounding, pathetic _five days_. If even that! 

His throat felt frozen, eyes wide and stinging in the steam. He wanted to pull away; he wanted to lean in. He wanted to push Victor away in whatever way he could, drive him off before he figured out how hopeless this all was. “I,” he said, swallowing with a dry mouth. The words wouldn’t come _out_.

“Yuri?” Victor looked concerned, shifting closer, Yuri’s hands and towel almost pressed against his breastbone. “Yuri, if you can’t talk about this, I —”

“Until I know love and am loved in return.” The words came out in a rush, harsh and jolting. Yuri pulled back from Victor, taking his hands and towel and twisting to stand in a cascade of hot water. He resisted the urge to shake, stepping up onto the side of the bath. “I’m _like this_ until then, all right? It’s not changing. It’s never going to be any different.”

“Yuri —”

He stalked away from Victor, nails clicking against the stone floors, dripping water as he went. Makkachin lifted her head off her paws to wag her tail. He managed a half-hearted wag of his water-laden tail in return.

He could hear damp feet slapping through the puddles he’d left behind on the stone. Yuri reached for the first of his pile of towels to start scrubbing vigorously at his fur as Victor joined him, stark naked and probably _still_ stupidly pretty, ridiculously lovely, incredibly handsome. Beautiful in how he moved, the way his eyes lit up, the quirk of his lips into an unfettered grin. Yuri’s heart ached and he propped his inhuman foot up on the bench, rubbing the water out of his fur with a single minded purpose.

He didn’t speak, focusing on drying, paying attention to the sounds from Victor and Makkachin. The dog got up and wandered over to her owner, presumably, met with a murmur of words before she was patted and sent on her way. Victor didn’t move for a while, and Yuri allowed himself to tune even that awareness out, trading legs and bringing his tail around to start working the water out of it too.

He’d so thoroughly ignored Victor that when a towel draped over his head, accompanied by two hands that started mussing his hair and the fur of his forehead and ears, Yuri lost his balance, flailing backward with a yelp. He didn’t fall far, caught by the broad expanse of chest at his back, one of Victor’s arms dropping down to catch around his torso.

“Woah there, it’s just me,” Victor said, laughing as Yuri huffed and shoved up at the towel still draped over his head.

“What are you _doing_?” he demanded, resolutely trying not to think about the state of undress of the man at his back. It’d been easier in the baths because nudity was naturally part of bathing, but up here, after? If they were dressing it was one thing. This space invasion was something else.

“Helping get you dry!” Victor gave another firm scrub of the towel over Yuri’s head after his cheerful announcement, earning another bat of Yuri’s hands as he lurched forward, spinning around. The bench was too close, nearly unbalancing him. He caught himself at the last second, paws splayed and nails digging into the wood for support. 

Yuri shoved the towel off his head entirely, finding he’d dropped the one he’d been using in the process. With an aggravated sigh, he glanced down, then up to Victor, shoulders hunched up closer to his ears. “I can dry myself just fine, thank you!”

Victor’s smile was unapologetic. “Of course, but you’re already taking too long. You’re showing me the library, remember?” He tapped his index finger against his chin, holding his elbow with his other hand, towel dangling from his grip. “Is there a reason you’re not speeding things up by calling the water down off you?”

Yuri gave him an openly suspicious look. An impatient Victor was something of a startling new discovery he wasn’t sure he trusted. On the other hand, if this was Victor’s way of moving past the awkward note that had entered their companionable time in the baths when Yuri blurted out the truth about his curse, Yuri wouldn’t complain. _Too_ much. “You can’t do that. Can you?”

His guest smiled enigmatically, finger dropping away from his chin. “There’s a pattern to it,” he said, holding either end of a towel in his hands. “If you can recognise a pattern, you can dance to it. Either here,” he said, swaying to the side and stepping forward, flipping the towel up and over Yuri’s head, “Or in here.” Victor ducked his head down enough to tap a knuckle against his forehead. Then he let go of the ends of the towel to leave it draped over Yuri’s shoulders, taking a step back. “You’ve got five minutes before I start helping you dry off again. Makkachin can tell you I’m a very efficient dryer!” 

Victor winked and turned on heel, walking over to where his own towel and change of clothes sat folded on the wooden bench. Yuri stared after him, mouth dropping open in surprised protest. “I’m not a _dog_ , Victor!”

“Of course not,” Victor tossed back over his shoulder, picking up his towel. “You’re far too much of a sexy fox for that.”

Victor supposed he probably deserved the towel smack to the back of his legs he earned for his comment, but he absolutely did not claim responsibility for the fifteen minute towel whip war that ensued. 

* * *

On the bright side, they were both in better moods by the time they managed to dress and make their way to the library. Victor found himself enamoured of the rooms as soon as he was introduced. Deep window-seats were framed on top with stained glass, sending light and colour dancing through the circular rooms. The walls were covered in bookcases, holding books and scrolls. The spiral staircase in the middle of the room stretched upward, linking each of the levels to the next. It was beautifully crafted wood, painted in white and lined in gold. Each step was a rich, deep golden wood, Victor not enough of an architect to name the kind. 

“Wow,” he breathed out, stopping just inside the entrance. He looked toward Yuri, smiling slow, wonder filling his gaze. “It’s one amazing surprise after another with you, Yuri. I don’t know if my heart can take it.” Yet he smiled, hand pressed to his chest, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his borrowed tunic. _Please don’t stop_ , he almost said. 

Yuri laughed, short lived and self-conscious, turning his gaze toward the book-lined walls. “You would have found this place eventually.” Still, the warmth in his chest at Victor’s words was worth treasuring. It might not have been an intentional surprise. Victor’s reaction was still rewarding. “Come on, the recordings you were asking about are on the next level.”

Victor trailed his fingers over the railing as he followed Yuri up the stairs, close enough that Yuri’s tail brushed against Victor as they walked. Makkachin was still exploring the ground level, bounding up the stairs in their wake when she noticed they’d left.

The second floor had the same deep window seat facing in the same direction as the one a floor below. The stained glass on top was formed into different geometric patterns, casting multicoloured light off the polished wood floors. 

Victor was still looking around, having crossed the walkway from the stairs to the floor proper, when Yuri gestured for him. “Over here.” Victor joined him where he stood in front of a series of palm sized drawers in a cabinet mounted to the wall. Each drawer was numbered sequentially, top to bottom, right to left. Victor arched a brow, impressed.

“An index filing system?” He glanced over the numbers, whistling as he noticed they climbed well into the thousands. “This many?”

Yuri smiled, tongue poking out of the front of his mouth. “Yeah.” He laughed, short and soft and low, more of a chuff than proper amusement. “There’s a catalogue here.” Pulling out a narrow volume, he handed it over to Victor. “There’s an index in the back, if that helps. As far as I’ve ever been able to tell, everything’s in the place it should be. There’s a player over by the window, and another one in the ballroom. I think there used to be one in the dining hall too.”

Turning the catalogue over in his hands, Victor glanced up, curious. “Used to be?”

Yuri shrugged. “All that’s left are parts. Whatever happened to it happened before I ever got here.”

“Ah.” Exactly who or what had inhabited this place before Yuri? It didn’t seem to matter. Yuri was the only one here with the castle now. Victor shook his head, flipping the book open to a page at random. His eyes skimmed over songs, pausing as he recognised a composer. “Impressive… looking over all this is going to take more than a few hours.” He closed the catalogue again with a smart snap, flashing a smile at Yuri. “Do you mind if I take it back with me to my room?”

“If you want. It’s not like it need to be in here except to identify recordings when you know what you want to play.” Yuri paused, scratching at the side of his muzzle as he examined a plaque on the cabinet drawers. “You’re sure about this?”

“Absolutely. I’d hate to be stuck up in this room alone to browse through. It’s much more cozy in front of a fire, don’t you think?”

Yuri snorted, shaking his head. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?” Victor tucked the catalogue under his arm, turning toward Yuri.

“You should. The dancing, the, all the stuff with the magic here. I’m not _good_ at any of this.”

“Not good at…” Victor reached out a hand, curling his finger under Yuri’s chin to gently coax his muzzle up. When he could see Yuri was looking him in the eye, he leaned in, blue eyes focused. “You can do this. You _will_ do this. If what I need to be is your confidence, then I will be.” 

Yuri didn’t respond, close to holding his breath with how close Victor was. He breathed in inevitably, enjoying the subtle scent of Victor his nose informed him on as he did. The words didn’t make sense. It felt unfounded, the confidence Victor had for Yuri. It also sounded genuine. Victor genuinely believed Yuri could do this.

He didn’t want to disappoint Victor. He didn’t want to let him down by admitting just how useless he feared he’d be at first; that he had years to make up for, and he might not be at the level he needed to be in order to handle the magic. That he could manage the dancing, he figured, but weaving magic into that?

It frightened him. The magic here had been a wild thing, demanding and voracious. How could he learn how to tame or guide something so mindlessly consuming as that? 

Victor was watching him, waiting for a response. Or maybe he had found one already in the set of Yuri’s shoulders. He made himself form words, even if they weren’t the ones he wanted. Those seemed to slide away from him as soon as he reached out to pull them close. “Okay. I’ll figure it out.”

Victor waited. With no other words forthcoming, he nodded. “Okay. We’ll figure it out. Together.” He winked, dropping his hand away from Yuri’s chin. “Meet me in the ballroom an hour. Wear something easy to move in.”

Yuri nodded, beating his retreat for the sake of his fast beating heart and the lingering feeling of Victor’s finger under his chin. He could swear for a moment it had almost seemed like Victor might lean in further and do something truly absurd, like kiss him. A flight of embarrassing fancy that Yuri wanted nothing to do with.

He wanted nothing to do with it at all. If he told himself that often enough, it’d finally start feeling true.

* * *

They settled into a new pattern, one where Yuri found himself almost always in Victor’s company. Breakfasts were eaten together, followed by the careful exercising of Philua after his morning feed. Yuri would be excused to his duties in the greenhouse, where he still refused to allow Victor entry. He needed more time for that. Victor pouted, but seemed understanding enough. He only brought it up right before Yuri would head off, and ask him how things had gone when he returned.

The training was more intense than Yuri had imagined. The first day had been the worse in ways, with Victor putting Yuri through his paces, sticking to dance alone. Yuri’s self-consciousness had tripped him up at first, then fallen away, focusing on the beat of music and the steps to dances he’d known year before. How to move, where his arms should be, which gesture followed naturally from one to the next. Even partnered dances, which Victor ran him through in quick succession. _Good_ , or _could be better_ , or _not like that, more lift,_ or _flow naturally into that dip of your shoulder._ Praise and correction delivered in at times dizzying succession, and Victor, always Victor, with his eyes on Yuri.

The second day he’d been sore and aching, Victor joining him in a series of warm up exercises before he pulled Yuri out into the halls to run. Dance wasn’t the difficult part. Running had him panting, realising he was more out of shape than he realised, but that wasn’t _difficult_. If anything, it was a pleasant sort of burn, and one that Victor asked for day after day. The two of them would run or jog their laps down the main hall until the pounding of Yuri’s heart was louder than the doubts in his head.

Then they would begin with the magic. Victor was quick to find that Yuri had the talent, even the training from sometime in his past, but his consistency was alarmingly all over the place. Yuri had excellent self control. What he didn’t have was faith in his ability to maintain that control along with a healthy connection to the magics around him. He called on too little, fighting against it, trying to order and demand without making his desires known.

Calling out to the magic with fear, with reluctance. Emotions that weren’t conducive to the kind of control Victor wanted for him, or even what he’d felt glimmering under the surface that night Yuri had danced them both through the ballroom.

“It’s about desire,” Victor said one day, hands resting on his hips. The mug of water sitting on the floor had a few droplets that had been called up out of it, resting on the lip and around its base. Victor could feel the magic around them, knew that Yuri had even been able to focus it around them, but his touch would become uncertain. He wouldn’t guide so much as demand, pushing back instead of inviting closer. He fought with his own nature as far as magic was concerned, trying to use water without giving it a form to shape itself into.

“About what?” Yuri wiped the back of one hand across his forehead, brushing stray tendrils of hair out of his eyes. He had his glasses on right then. It tended to change from moment to moment.

“Desire,” Victor said, tapping his foot on the ground. “When you guide the magic, you have to _want_ to give it a purpose, a function. Water flows and forms to the shape of the container it’s poured into. Like the mug, like the hot springs. With magic, our wants give it that form.” It worked for each element and for different sorts of inherent magics as well, but with water being Yuri’s, it was easiest to frame it in those terms alone. “In this case, what’s your strongest desire?”

Yuri’s ears were splayed out to either side of his head. “For the water to move. From where it is in the mug to here, where I’m standing.”

Victor nodded, stepping closer. “You know what you want it to do. Now you have to guide it toward that desire.” He paused, reaching up to rest his index finger against his lips. What kind of comparison could he give to help Yuri connect with the emotion? “Imagine a time when you desired for your lover to kiss you —”

“What?!” Yuri whirled around to face Victor, shoulders hunched, ears back, teeth bared. He seemed to catch himself immediately after, holding his hands up and pressing his ears against his skull, embarrassed and repentant. His tail curled around his leg as he begged apologies. “I’m sorry, Victor, I didn’t mean — I haven’t. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped!”

One shouted word hardly counted as snapping in Victor’s mind, but he felt that was the wrong point for either of them to focus on. He held up his hands, making a lowering motion. “It’s okay, it’s fine. It was meant as an example, nothing else.” He paused, unable to help himself from giving Yuri a curious look. “Does that mean you’ve never had a lover?”

“No comment.” Yuri straightened the sleeve of his tunic, adjusting its fall over his shoulder. More of his fur showed in his dancing wear than his usual, loose trousers and a loose, short sleeved tunic left unlaced around his throat. 

“How old were you when you were cursed?”

Yuri looked offended, tail uncurling from around his leg to lash between his ankles. “Eighteen.”

Victor couldn’t help the look of surprise that flashed across his features. Had Yuri mentioned how old he was before? It was possible. Until more recently, Victor knew he wasn’t paying full attention, too distracted by other necessities and obligations and loves he felt toward his troupe. Either way, in that moment, he finally _understood_ exactly how old Yuri was.

“You’re only twenty-three?”

“Twenty- _four_. As of a week or two ago.” Yuri stood with his shoulders back, chin up, daring Victor to say anything about his age. The _only_ galled him. Enough that he ended up asking about it. “How old did you _think_ I was?”

“Forty or so, I suppose.” 

“ _What?!_ ” A beat after, Yuri saw the way Victor smiled, turning the offhand comment into the tease it was meant to be. He took a step forward, stamping one paw on the ground. “ _Victor_ , be serious!”

Victor shook his head, waving his hands in front of himself. “Since you insist. Honestly, I thought you were probably at least in your _late_ twenties. I had no idea I was older than you. Or that we’d missed your birthday.”

Yuri narrowed his eyes, suspicious of the answer, accepting it for now. The lashing of his tail calmed, ears swiveling forward in reluctant curiosity. Victor talked about many things, but other than a few overtures that Yuri normally fumbled, he spoke less about himself than those he danced with. Or Makkachin. Yuri had a fast growing collection of stories about Makkachin’s adventures as told by Victor. “You weren’t around. The castle made me a cake.” Why was he saying that? It sounded pathetic when he pointed out the _castle_ had made him a cake for his birthday. Even if it _had_ been in his favourite flavour. “How old are you?”

Victor glanced toward the mug of water, letting his hands come down to rest on his hips. He sighed dramatically, cocking his head to the side. “Twenty-seven.”

Yuri was definitely curious. “You look younger than that.” He was rewarded by the sight of Victor looking flummoxed, caught between a certain pleasure and consternation at having the reverse accusation tossed his way. It made Yuri feel a little better.

“Flattery, Yuri, will get you almost everywhere,” Victor settled on saying, crossing his arms over his chest. He fell silent, lifting his eyebrows when Yuri likewise stayed silent. “Aren’t you going to ask me when my birthday is?”

Yuri gave Victor a blank stare, only the twitch of his tail giving away his amusement. “Why would I do that?”

“ _Yuri_ ,” Victor said, giving up the mantle of mentor for the moment in favour of a full on pout and drawing out of the sound of his student’s name. 

Yuri found himself smiling, holding up his own hands in a placating gesture. “I’m joking, I promise. Okay, Victor. When _is_ your birthday? Keep in mind that I don’t go into the city, so gifts aren’t likely to be anything grand.”

Victor gave a toss of his hand, lips pulling into a small grin. “Well I _do_ like roses…”

“Along with terrible jokes.”

“Most of life is filled with jokes of some kind, Yuri. I prefer finding a reason to smile through them all. Now, do you want to know or not? We have a lesson to get back to.” He put on a mock stern expression, belied by the mischievous glint in his eyes.

“I want to know, I want to know!” Yuri rested his own hands on his hips, mouth open in a canine grin. “You’re about to tell me it’s in the summer, aren’t you?”

“Hardly. I’m a winter child.” He reached up, raking his fingers through his bangs. “Couldn’t you tell?”

Yuri had the grace to snort but say nothing, figuring it was a trap to more pouting from Victor either way. Victor seemed to accept that, smile relaxing into something less teasing, more genuinely pleased.

“December twenty-fifth.”

Yuri had to admit he was surprised. “That’s coming up soon. Did you… do you normally do anything to celebrate it?”

Victor shrugged, hand dropping away from his forehead. “Eat and drink with friends. We’re usually performing through the last two weeks of the year. There’s no real time for celebrating.” His eyes glimmered with good humour, unconcerned with his generally uncelebrated birthday. “Think the castle will make me a cake?”

It felt wrong to Yuri that someone as vivacious as Victor simply worked through his birthday without celebrating it in any particular way. Victor didn’t seem to mind, and he supposed he shouldn’t mind either, but it stuck in his craw. “I’ll make you one,” he said instead, surprising himself with the amount of feeling behind his declaration. Feeling both off center and a little gratified to see Victor’s response, eyes widening, startled. 

Victor laughed after a moment, a strangely soft expression on his face. “I’ll hold you to that, Yuri. Thank you. Now, about desire…”

They returned to their lesson, Yuri still struggling with the concept. It was one that would stick in his mind for days yet. He wasn’t a stranger to wanting, but desire, a focused, specific _desire_ felt like a commitment. To magic, and to himself.

He wanted to make it, he found. He just wasn’t sure how.

* * *

It was almost a week later after dinner that Victor learned two interesting things about Yuri, entirely unplanned. One was that Yuri was tied to the magic of the castle in ways that Victor was only beginning to properly feel out. That included Yuri being warned of events transpiring that Victor could only vaguely sense as a rippling outward through magic, a desperate reach for power in a ragged defense. 

The second was that Yuri wasn’t a single element witch. 

They’d been mid conversation when they’d both felt the startling jolt along the magic lines over the estate, responding to a desperate call for power outside, nearby. The wolves that had kept Victor on the estate two weeks ago had been in the area ever since, singing out their haunting cries during the day, but more often at night.

It was the wolves they heard singing a hunting song when they opened the kitchen door connecting outside. Exchanging a look, they’d ducked back inside and pulled on their coats, Victor finding his boots and shoving his feet in even as he was racing for the front hall. Yuri beat him there, shoving the door open and running for the stables. The black pony was already waiting, pawing at the snow and in full gear, sans a bridle. He threw his head and snorted, waiting for Yuri to clamber up on his back before he danced sideways, nearly jostling Victor.

Philua called out from inside the stables. Victor grimaced: Yuri would benefit from having him along to take down the ice barrier. Yuri could call magic and guide it better now than the week before, but he still had a hesitance that made it less sure than it could be. The delay it’d cost them in Victor having to saddle his horse might be one that cost the life of whoever it was fighting the wolves outside the estate walls.

Stepping into the stables, he saw the witchlights were already shining, reflecting off polished leather and padded buckles on the saddle Philua was wearing. The horse was tied to the door of his stall, trying to back up and away, reins looped over his neck. “Thank you,” Victor said as he jogged over, calling out and chattering soothing nonsense to Philua as he untied his halter rope. He led the nervous gelding out into the night air, watching him shudder as the wolves howled again, singing their beautiful, terrible song.

Still, Philua held steady, allowing Victor to mount and turn his head toward the drive. Yuri and the black pony were impatient, turning in tandem of united purpose to canter down the way. Dangerous in the best of circumstances; necessary in the worst.

Victor didn’t usually have a need of his second element. It was too attention attracting these days, and not in the good ways. To the beat of Phillia’s hooves on the snowy ground, he built a pattern in his mind, calling on the magic that flowed in richer plenty through the estate than it had two and a half weeks earlier to form a light in his hand. His fingers danced, a twist of his wrist and a flick of his thumb and index finger the final spark that brought his modified form of witchlight to life. Victor lobbed it overhead, keeping the pattern dancing in his mind, in the movement of his fingers, until he could feel the magic solidify.

Yuri glanced back his way, eyes large and luminous in the light of the swollen moon and Victor’s light. Then he looked forward, only slowing as they neared the craggy expanse of the ice wall Victor had called into existence over the broken gates. Victor was as suddenly glad for the greater presence of magic he could feel all around them; he had as little preparation for his task this time, only the added benefit of destructive magic requiring comparatively less energy than creative magic. The tradeoff being the necessary control being even greater to control the degree of damage; Victor slowed Philua to a trot, then sailed on past Yuri, gesturing for him to stay where he was. Gesturing for his witchlight to hang over Yuri and the dark pony while he took Philua to the wall of ice.

Philua was a valuable horse for his witch training more than anything else. His breeding wasn’t particularly noteworthy, simply steady. His colour was pleasing, but not spectacular. Yet his ability to hold steady while a rider worked magic was unparalleled, allowing Victor to drop his reins and send a thought of immense gratitude to Yakov, promising he’d get his troupe leader’s four legged troupe member back to him as soon as he could. In the meantime, he pulled on the magic he called to him, funneling it into a simple desire. It was harder to do this mounted, but he didn’t have the time to coax Philua through the simple steps he would have preferred. He focused on the steps he _would_ take, laying out the mental tapestry as he brought his hands up and held them in front of his chest. Close to touching, but not quite.

He rolled his wrists out, fingers splayed, coming back toward his chest. By the end of his rotation, the backs of his hands faced each other, bare and ungloved in his haste to get out of the castle. He laced his fingers together, rough and chill, curling them until the knuckle of each finger was locked together with the next. Rolling his wrists again, he rotated them outward, elbows coming up to shoulder level as he held his hands steady. With grim determination, he counted to three, inviting the magic in, directing it toward his desire. Strong, focused, and simple.

_Open a way._

In his mind’s eye, he saw the ice pull apart, forming a channel from the interior of the estate to the outside. He kept that image in mind as he abruptly pulled his hands apart, feeling the ache and sharp pain of his knuckles pulling past each other in the cold air. 

The ice responded with a crack like thunder, startling Philua into backing up before he held himself still once more. Ice flaked and fell in a widening, oddly smooth gap, until a channel opened between both sides of the ice wall. Victor nudged Philua through, trusting Yuri would follow after. The passageway was narrow, Victor’s knees and feet nudging against ice on either side more than once. He was out soon enough, bringing Philua to a stop. His witchlight held steady over Yuri’s head, illuminating blue shadows and shapes moving through the ice. It would have been unsettling, beautiful and ethereal all at once, if there’d been any less sense of urgency to what they were doing.

As it was, Victor only nodded to Yuri once he cleared the ice, clucking for Philua to move into a canter after the shorter pony. Yuri seemed to know exactly where he was going. From what Victor could tell of the sounds coming from the wolves, they were getting closer. The tug of magic ahead of them was growing stronger, but less focused, more sporadic.

He ducked down low to Philua’s neck and prayed they would make it in time.

Yuri burst into the clearing with the wolves first, barreling into one wolf as it tried to dodge out of the pony’s way. A horse reared away from a leap for its throat, one of the two figures on its back slipping off as a flash of flame sparked in the eyes of another wolf, making it yelp in pain a the sudden light.

Victor reached out with his magic to nudge the witchlight higher, but the downed figure was scrambling to their feet even as the horse threw itself to the side, herded by another dark figure. A canine? Massive, if so, and booming its bark at the horse’s heels, driving it forward and out of the circle of wolves. The second figure clinging to its back cried out, calling back. “ _Yuri!”_

The figure scrambling to his feet again called back in response. “Isabella!”

Yuri was too focused to notice either cry. He was holding to the saddle as the pony kicked out with his heels, barely missing one of the massive white wolves. Victor charged Philua right into the middle of the clearing, catching a look of the face of the person on the ground.

“Yura?”

His younger troupe member looked up at him, grim expression momentarily shifting into shocked surprise. “Vitya?”

Victor didn’t see the wolf until it was too late. The massive animal threw itself at Yura, knocking the young man down with an audible smack. Yura lay unmoving underneath him; Victor felt a sharp spike of panic alongside a depth of calculating calm as he lifted his hand. It was inelegant magic, as rough as what Yura had been using to try and drive back the wolves. Forming snow into ice, giving it an edge, driving it up through the paws of the wolf. The animal cried out, jerking back and away, leaving bloody footprints behind as it limped toward the outside edge of the clearing.

Victor slid off Philua, reaching for Yura and pulling him up and into his lap. “Please,” he said, not sure what he was asking for. He had Yura turned over, ducking his head close and listening for breath in his body, numb fingers fumbling to try and find a pulse in his neck. Breath against his cheek was enough to tell Victor that Yura lived yet. Philua stayed close, dancing his feet and crying out a challenge to the wolves, afraid but turning to fight instead of fleeing, same as when he’d been attacked with Yakov. The bond he had with the troupe members was unusually strong.

Victor had never fully appreciated that until now.

He carefully settled Yura back on the snow, standing over him and facing off against the remaining wolves. Yuri had dismounted nearby, his mouth open, lips drawn back. His canines were exposed, a growl in his throat to match the ones of the wolves. The pony was holding his own, kicking out and rearing in turn, keeping the wolves from getting a clear angle of attack.

They were forming a circle around Yura on the ground, Philua ending up at the pony’s side. He seemed to take his cues from the pony, whirling and kicking out with a scream of challenge. The pony was quieter, but no less proactive. His own challenging cry was surprisingly deep when it came.

Victor had better movement now that he was on the ground. The magic was less plentiful out here than on the estate proper by now, but it was respectable and already primed from Yura’s desperate wrenching. Ice would be easier than fire, calling for a restructuring of snow, not the stealing of heat from small and large reactions and bodies nearby to concentrate it into usable force. He stomped one foot, then the other, preparing to call the ice.

A dark shape to his side drew his attention to Yuri. Only Yuri seemed less clearly defined, as if his edges had softened even under the light still streaming down from overhead. He snarled, eyes flashing as he twirled to the side, darting forward and leaping as one of the wolves leapt. It carried him beyond their protective circle, but he’d evaded the attacking wolf. Yuri brought his hands up and thrust them out at the wolf as it turned to face him, and Victor knew, he _knew_ , what he was seeing.

Yuri wasn’t just a water witch. He was a shadow witch, and in his battle rage, if that was what this was, his focus was impeccable. Yuri called the magic to him, thrust it forward. Locked a band of shadow around the wolf’s head as it charged him, rendering him blind. Snapping his teeth even as the wolf ran into him, biting blindly.

He could feel the magic swirling all around them, feel the pull that was coming from Yuri. Realised in the same moment that this wasn’t Yuri thinking. _One moment they were there, the next they weren’t._ The castle hadn’t vanquished the wolves that’d been attacking Yakov and Philua weeks ago.

It’d been Yuri. Yuri, who couldn’t remember, who was on hands and knees and calling on magic that was all too willing to respond to his desire. _Protect_. Victor could feel that emotion like a caress, carried through the magic, but he could feel the hunger, too. Yuri wasn’t controlling this. Not in a way that wouldn’t be a danger for them all. He was relying on instinct even as another wolf leapt for his back, tearing into his shoulder. Yuri cried out in pain and anger, hitting the ground and slamming the wolf against the ground, trying to free himself.

_No_. Victor abruptly switched stance, spinning himself around and reaching skyward, toward the light there. Redirecting his call for magic to a studied brilliance; calling on the memory of an overflowing abundance, a happiness and fierceness that extended beyond himself, filled more than what his body could hold. The first time he’d held Makkachin. The first time he’d danced perfectly, calling water up into a failing well from the ground below. The first time he’d seen the sea.

He poured all of that into a single want, his own focused desire. _Shine_. He twisted around, arms sweeping low and then coming up again, numbed fingers splayed out, reaching for the sun that was only there in the reflection off the moon. _Shine_.

“Close your eyes,” he called out, his singular warning before the witchlight overhead started to pulse, bright and brighter. He dropped down, head falling forward, arms cradling the magic he envisioned within him, pushing it toward his fingers, to the palms of his hands. When he lifted his arms once more, hands coming together at his navel, cupping together and pushing up, up, offering to the sky when they were thrust over his head, still cupped together.

His witchlight pulsed once more before bursting into blinding, brilliant light, turning the night into a consuming whiteness.

It worked on the wolves, of course, driving them back with yelps of surprised pain. They’d recover eventually, the temporary blindness fading as time passed. He also heard Yuri cry out; heard Philua whinny in surprise and fear. Only the pony remained calm. When Victor glanced his way, he noticed the pony’s eyes were still slammed shut.

Interesting. He _knew_ that pony was hyperintelligent for a horse.

He was moving back to Yura, checking him again for signs of waking. Gentle exploration of his head provided him with evidence of a bump, but nothing bleeding. He looked up, over toward where he’d last seen Yuri. Yuri was sitting up, clawing at his eyes. His shadows were dispelling, magic abandoned to try and be reabsorbed by the landscape. It hurt Victor’s heart seeing him like that, but he had to handle this one step at a time. Yuri was conscious. Yura wasn’t.

How the hell was he going to get them where they needed to be?

The answer came from an unlikely source. The black pony approached, ducking his head down to sniff Yura, lipping his hair. Victor pressed his lips into a thin line, meeting the pony’s dark eye.

“Can you bring him home? To where you brought Yakov. Yura needs the troupe in a way he won’t be satisfied with at the castle.”

The pony held Victor’s gaze. He breathed out in a snort, then nodded, a deliberate and slow movement. Turning his head, the pony seemed to be taking in the sight of Yuri and of Philua, two individuals lost in their own temporary blindness.

Victor nodded in turn. “I’ll take care of them both. I promise.” 

The pony was quiet. He reached out, lipping Yura’s hair once more. It seemed to be understanding enough.

Victor managed to get Yura up in his arms, arranging him in the saddle on the pony’s back. He didn’t question the odd lengths of dark woven rope that seemed to attach under the pommel. They would work for tying Yura into the saddle, securing him in place. Victor adjusted his coat and gloves and hat, taking care to ensure as little of Yura was exposed as possible.

Then he patted the pony on the shoulder. “Thank you.” Victor turned away and the pony started off, neither one looking back. They both had their duties to attend to; Victor calling out to Yuri and Philua in turns.

Yuri had stopped clawing at his face, instead sitting still and breathing hard. Victor approached carefully, repeating his name in a soft, cajoling tone, until he saw Yuri’s ears reacting, twitching around his way. Yuri started shaking, tongue lolling out, then running over one side of his muzzle.

“Victor?” He said, shivering. “Victor, I can’t see.”

“I know, Yuri. I’m sorry, my warning came too late. I had to drive them off. They were hurting you.” Hurting everyone, but succeeding with Yuri. He didn’t choose to mention the shadow magic for now. Yuri was in shock, or close to it. Answers would wait. “Here, I’m coming to your side right now. Do you think you can stand? We need to get moving. I don’t know when those wolves might try to come back.”

“I can stand,” he said, sounding uncertain. He still lurched upward, arms akimbo, near to smacking Victor in the face. Victor managed to catch one of Yuri’s arms instead, tucking himself under it and looping his arm around Yuri’s waist. The smell of blood was difficult to ignore this close; the wet gleam of it glistening in the moonlight down Yuri’s front. Victor didn’t know if that was the only injury. He needed to get Yuri back to the castle. 

They only had the moonlight to navigate by now, Victor’s witchlight destroyed in the burst of brilliance that had blinded most of those in the clearing. He managed to keep Yuri steady while calling Philua over, eventually nabbing the dragging reins. Philua didn’t like the smell of blood anymore than Victor did. It took two false starts before he could convince the gelding to hold still for long enough that Victor could coach Yuri through mounting. 

“That’s my Philua,” he said, holding the horse steady as he helped keep Yuri steady. “That’s my Yuri,” he said, helping to push Yuri up into the saddle when he jumped. “We’re heading back to the castle. Yuri, I need you to keep talking to me. Do you think you can do that?”

Yuri’s response came at a delay. “... Talk about what?”

“Anything. What you’re growing in the greenhouse. Your favourite herbs. What kind of tea do you like best?” Victor took Philua’s lead, finding the horse kept attempting to rest his head against Victor’s back. Eventually, Victor let him. If he led from the front with Philua blindly following, forehead pressed to Victor, they moved more swiftly than with him coaxing Philua from the side.

“I… herbs? I’m growing what takes. Other things… pruning. Flowers year round. Not all, just some. Not healthy for them. Victor, I feel light headed.”

“Keep holding on to the saddle, Yuri. If you think you’re falling, just say the word. I’ll be right there to catch you.” Victor, running on adrenaline, knowing very well that at some point exhaustion was going to catch up with him as much as it was trying to with Yuri right now.

“Oh. That’s nice. Thank you,” Yuri said, hunkering down lower in the saddle. “I feel better hearing that. I’m still light headed, but I feel better.”

“I’m glad, Yuri. So tell me, what’s your favourite tea?”

Victor didn’t remember most their conversation on the way back to the castle. Philua and Yuri both started regaining vision around the time they made it to the gates, but the horse refused to do anything but follow Victor’s lead, and Yuri talked about dancing dark spots and circles behind his eyelids.

It took impossibly long to make it back up the drive and to the stables, Victor coaxing Yuri down into his arms before he settled him against the wall outside Philua’s stall. He untacked the horse and rubbed him down, making sure he had water and feed. There was a horse blanket he found draped over the door that he put around Philua too, all the while chatting with Yuri, demanding responses. Yuri continued to speak back at increasingly sporadic delays.

Getting Yuri back up to his feet and walking toward the castle was another feat. They stumbled through the snow, Victor glad nothing new had fallen since the day before. Makkachin met them at the doors with a whine. She was their quiet shadow as Victor addressed the castle, asking for a water basin and extra blankets and bandages in his room. It was closer than hauling Yuri up to his suite, and easier to keep warm. Smaller spaces were good for that much, in Victor’s experience, and he wanted Yuri kept warm.

“You don’t have to worry,” Yuri said at one point, patting Victor’s hand absently where it wrapped around Yuri’s side. “The castle heals.”

“I’m aware,” Victor replied, pleasant enough. “It still doesn’t hurt to clean and wash an injury out when I can.” Yuri seemed to agree, or at least his stubborn response was sidetracked when an accidental jostling sent a jolt of pain through his injured shoulder. Victor managed to get him into his room, the bed mysteriously made in spite of Victor’s ongoing tendency to sleep on the floor.

He was thankful for the castle’s odd, meddling ways at times. This was one of those times. While he ended up having to cut away Yuri’s tunic after getting him out of his coat, he considered that a lesser evil. Yuri had plenty of clothing. He only had one body.

Cleaning the bite wound on his shoulder involved cleaning out fur and fibers from Yuri’s tunic from the puncture wounds. It was a surprisingly clean bite, minimal tearing and lacerations around where the teeth had punctured skin. Yuri whimpered and bit down on his tongue to silence himself through the cleaning process, accepting the bandaging at the end with as much grace as he could manage.

Victor forced him to lap at water before he laid him back against propped up pillows. As far as he could tell, Yuri was at normal body temperature. The exhaustion that had been lurking was creeping up on him fast, leaving Victor feeling heavier than he was. “Go to sleep,” he said to Yuri, tucking him in while Makkachin leapt up and curled up next to Yuri’s legs. “See? Makkachin’s showing you the way.”

Yuri glanced down toward the dog, smiling in an absent, canine way. His eyes were already closing and fighting to open again; this time, he simply let them stay closed.

“She’s a good dog. Very good dog. Victor,” he said, smile fading. “You knew who it was. The person who fell.”

So Yuri had heard that much. Victor hadn’t been sure. “I do,” he said. “I’ll tell you more in the morning. Sleep for now. You need your beauty rest.”

It was enough to provoke a short, sharp snort from Yuri, followed by a low whine. _Ouch_. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’ve heard that a time or two before.” Victor smiled, starting to move away. He lifted his hand from the covers, only to find Yuri reaching for it with his good arm. 

“Stay,” he said, voice soft, almost difficult to make out. “Please. Stay with me tonight.”

He smiled to himself, feeling his heart ache at the quiet plead. He moved closer, legs pressed against the side of the bed. “I was planning on it. Just wanted to pull one of the chairs closer, that’s all.”

Yuri hummed understanding, then shook his head. Tugged on Victor’s hand. “Not kicking you off the bed. Share. It’s big. Big enough for all.”

Victor didn’t have the heart to tell him he never slept in this bed anyway. He could deal with one night on a too soft mattress if it would help Yuri. He could ignore the little stutter of his heart at the request, or the flip-flop of his stomach at the idea. “Okay, Yuri.” His huff of amusement was a soft exhalation. “I’ll share the bed with you for tonight. Mind letting go? I’ll have to crawl in from the other side to avoid jarring your shoulder.”

Yuri slit his eyes open, eyes dark, poorly focused. He didn’t let go for a long moment, then finally complied. His eyes stayed barely open while Victor rounded the foot of the bed, shrugging out of his coat and kicking off his boots at last. Details he hadn’t attended to in his hurry to get Yuri inside and taken care of. Did he really want to sleep in his day clothes?

He really didn’t care right now, climbing on top of the covers. Yuri watched him, breathing out in a sigh. “Under the blankets. Stubborn.”

Victor hesitated. “Yuri… I should warn you. I cuddle.”

Yuri’s eyes opened a little wider. “Oh.”

“I could hurt your shoulder.”

His eyes narrowed again. “Oh.” He went quiet, then sighed. “I’m sturdy, idiot. I’ll be fine.”

Victor aimed a playful pout at Yuri, a partial mask to his genuine concern. “Don’t go complaining to me in the morning, in that case.” He carefully slipped under the blankets, arranging the pillow under his head, tucking his feet against the warmth of Makkachin’s bulk at the foot of the mattress. “Goodnight, Yuri.”

Yuri sighed, a contented sound, closing his eyes once more. “Goodnight, Victor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is going to either be an entire interlude back in city (this one got too long!) or an interlude back in the city along with what comes next. I'll adjust chapter count based on how long that interlude ends up being, where we see how it is Yura ended up out in the winter woods with Isabella of all people. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's commented! It always lights up my day when I get to read what people are saying, though I can be slow responding as I work on the chapters themselves. You're lovely and wonderful! Thank you so much for your continued support.
> 
> As always, comment to let me know what you liked, or what could use work, or what you think is going on! Finally got plenty of naked Victor (nod to you, my friend) and such other enjoyable ridiculousnesses along with the sudden dive into hurt/comfort. Hello, nods to Beauty and the Beast tales over time.


	8. in which yura fails at learning patience, victor doesn't know it all, and yuri bakes a cake for him anyway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri Plisetsky's take on events since Victor's leaving town exposes the troubles he's been facing in his efforts to bring Victor back home. While he reluctantly resolves to try and follow Yakov's advice of patience, Victor and Yuri try to navigate their burgeoning relationship in the face of their own assumptions about themselves and each other before the next new moon arrives and Yuri is left to face his personal demons once again.

Yuri Plisetsky’s head was a pounding, throbbing mess as he regained conscious thought. Every bone in his body felt jarred as the horse beneath him plodded on tirelessly through the snow, dull crunching of hooves compressing layers of crystal snowflakes down into a path left to ice over in their wake. He was cold, every muscle he remembered and half those he forgot ached, and he was fighting back the rise of bile in his throat.

Opening his eyes was harder than it had any right to be. It was still night; he could see the stars peering down between the clouds, the moon masked and revealed in turns. A cold light, he thought, much more fond of the sun’s burning rays, warm and hot and incessant.

Warm like the horse was. Warm like the bizarre weave of the horse’s mane over his arms and around his middle, keeping him in place in a saddle he dimly recognised. Panic shot through him as the familiarity registered, chased by an anger that burnt so hot he could ignore the way he _hurt_ as he struggled to sit up.

“Let go of me,” he demanded, pulling himself back and tearing at the hairs coiled and looped over his sleeves. “Let me go _right now_!”

The black pony turned his head, peering at Yuri from one dark eye, ears swiveling around to focus on him. He came to a halt as Yuri struggled harder, the hair woven around Yuri’s arms and waist relaxing, slipping away in coils and loops. Yuri felt his heart beating too hard, unable to account for the behaviour except by embracing the truth that this pony wasn’t all he seemed. He wanted away, but not from the pony. He had no idea where they were heading, but his bets were that he was further away from Victor than he had been earlier that night with Isabella. Victor, who had come charging in on that horse, when the wolves had Yuri surrounded.

Victor. Isabella. Yuri looked around, turning his head too fast and feeling his world start to spin. He clung to the pommel of the saddle as he slipped sideways, cursing. His slow slide was checked when the coils of hair looped tight around his waist, sneaking up one shoulder and down an arm to help pull Yuri back upright. Once he was centered, the hair fell away again. Yuri shivered and glared at the pony watching him with an inscrutable horsey expression, one ear flicking forward as if to suggest they get on about their business.

“Where’s Vitya? I saw him. He was there. Where’s Isabella? What happened to the wolves?” Yuri’s gloved fingers dug into the leather of the saddle, teeth gritting as he felt his frustration and worry rush through him, far too intense an emotion for his body. The fire that burned ready in his soul was a flicker of need in his veins, demanding action, guidance, movement. Yuri was used to that sensation, though his control over its finer aspects was up to debate.

Right now he was too discombobulated to do more than feel the promise of what his magic might be as it sang through him. The pony seemed aware to an extent; he started to move again, jarring Yuri out of his moment of inward focus. “Where did Vitya go? I heard him, I _know_ that was him. Are we heading his way?”

The pony looked forward, snorting sharp with a definitive shake of his head. _No_. Yuri grit his teeth, pulling his feet out of the stirrups and bodily shoving himself out of the saddle as the pony walked on. His head spun again as he slung a leg over the pony’s haunches, slipping out of the saddle and falling into the snow with a muffled _fwump_.

The pony stopped, turning to regard Yuri as he lay stunned for a long moment. The chill of snow against his exposed face and sneaking into his collar encouraged him to flail his way upward. He sat, head cradled in his hands and eyes closed as he fought against the nausea and dizziness wracking him in turns.

A snort at his shoulder was paired with the warm exhalation of the pony’s breath by his ear. Yuri pulled his head back enough to glare at the pony with one eye, finding him staring unimpressed right back.

“He’s family,” Yuri said, close to growling. It was either growling or pleading, and pleading wasn’t something he was ready to do. “I can’t _leave_ him there. This whole thing is stupid. Who gets caught up over some freaking flower, just — he needs to come _home_.” Annoying and genius and blunt and charming and idiotic as Victor could be in turn, he was still _Vitya_. He was _theirs_. Not some Beast’s, stranded in his sprawling castle with his unseasonable, choking _roses_. Yuri could only imagine it as burying Victor alive.

The pony snorted again, delicately taking the material at Yuri’s shoulder in his mouth, tugging upward. Yuri grimaced and batted at him, slowly rallying to the effort of climbing to his feet. He hated how disoriented he felt, his center of balance not quite right. He was listing to the side, the pony sidling up with a flick of his ears to provide himself as a surface for Yuri to brace himself against.

He was cold, getting colder. Even calling his personal fire to him would do nothing but burn his body’s resources until he hit beyond the point of exhaustion. Yuri shivered, teeth chattering, staring back the way they’d come. In the distance, the mournful cries of a wolf rose on the wind, once voice joined in slow succession by another, then another.

The wolves. It might be the same pack as from earlier, the one that had attacked him and Isabella. Where _was_ she? How had any of them gotten away? How had he ended up mounted on the dark pony? Yuri shivered again, hating the lack of answers and feeling of helplessness that pulsed through him. It was so _frustrating_ , having gotten this far, only to be thwarted by events he couldn’t push his way through.

His gloved fingers tightened their grip on the pony’s mane, steadily ignoring the way he was leaning into his warmth against the cold of the night air. “Is he safe?” Yuri stared into the darkness they’d left behind, expression set. “Where he is right now. Is Vitya safe?”

The pony let silence stretch between them. Eventually he dipped his head in an exaggerated nod. Not eager, but profound, respectful.

Yuri didn’t feel better. What he felt was trapped into a set of obligations and recognitions of his own limitations that he hated, but railing against them right now felt even more pointless than arguing when he needed to plan this out again. He would learn. He would do _better_.

He clenched his fists, snapping at the pony. “If you’re wrong about that, horse, I’ll skin you myself.”

The pony snorted. Whether he was impressed or not, he acknowledged Yuri’s words. He slowly sunk down to his knees, bringing his saddle in easy distance for Yuri to remount. Neither one of them made a sound as Yuri haltingly pulled himself into the saddle, or when he had to curl himself in half and focus on breathing through the ache of his head and the nausea. The lingering impression of the wolf attack was difficult for Yuri to pin down in his own thoughts. When he could sit upright under his own power, he took a fistful of mane in his hand and frowned, staring off toward the direction he assumed Victor lay.

“Come on,” he said at last, the pony standing with more grace than Yuri had expected. “If we can’t find Vitya, we need to find Isabella.”

* * *

**Some weeks earlier…**

It’d been in the days following Victor’s leavetaking with the black pony for the unknown of the Beast’s castle that Yuri found himself incessantly driven to find a means to saving him. Yakov said he needed to slow down; they were working on a plan. Rushing things wouldn’t bring Vitya back any faster. Mila had held her tongue while Georgi had done his best to reassure everyone before pulling in on himself to avoid the sharpened edges of the emotions he was surrounded by.

Yuri couldn’t understand why they weren’t doing more. Words weren’t _actions._ The performance they had the day after Victor had been taken was frustrating; Yuri’s best dance with live flame to date, lighting the lamps of the theatre as the troupe brought the memory of spring to their audience, flooding the indoor space with warmth and scent and the soft happiness of a world in bloom, come out of the long winter. It was a subtle, masterful use of magic, weaving three talents together to evoke a time still months away. Georgi had stepped up to narrate the whole, filling in the space that Victor so often claimed as a matter of support when his own magics weren’t called upon. It never stopped any of them from dancing. They were a performance: that night, they were the spirits of spring.

Yuri had gotten into a shouting match with Yakov after on the way back to their small house on its narrow cobblestone street. 

“We’re wasting time! Why aren’t we going after him already?!”

“Yura! I want to bring Vitya back home as much as you do, but we won’t be doing anything if we go off half prepared! He’s bound to that magic,” Yakov had tried explaining, looking tired and irritated and sad in a way that Yuri hated down to his marrow. “We need to find a way to satisfy the magic or else he’s never coming back. Then there’s the winter, and the wolves. We have to keep all of this in mind. We’re trying to succeed, not get ourselves killed.”

Yuri knew it made sense, but he couldn’t relent. “We’ll force the Beast to let him go! He set the magic in motion, he can make it stop!”

Mila had slung an arm across Yuri’s shoulders, pulling him in for a sideways hug he tried to elbow his way out of. She didn’t let him go, keeping a half-squirming armful of her younger troupe-mate close. “We could try asking politely,” she said, agreeing with Yuri while not agreeing with his methodology. “Once we had the means of getting there and handling the wolves. Would it hurt to ask?”

Georgi watched them all, rubbing his hands together in their gloves. The twitches of his fingers and the humming he took up under his breath was the only outward indication of the small sense of calmer, rational thought that settled over all of them. He rarely focused his magic in ways like this, small comforts to sooth instead of the grand gestures of positive emotion he enjoyed pouring out of himself for the sake of their audience. That he did so now was an indication of how strong emotions were riding through all of them, and his own being overwhelmed. Georgi attempting to pacify without a request was a stress response to save his own sense of self.

Yuri wasn’t convinced by Mila’s word, or Georgi’s temporary grace of greater calm, but he let his shouts turn into angry muttering, promising nothing except to handle the dishes for their evening meal. Later, when he was working with the harsh soap and the pleasantly warm water at their sink, he put his mind to work figuring out a solution.

Mila might be right. Asking might be the first step if demanding didn’t work. He was blithely unaware that if he planned on demanding first it meant that asking would by default be his second step, and that he might well have no actual sense of the delicacy of the situation in face of achieving what he wanted. It didn’t matter to him. 

What did matter? His current plan of action. He had to get to where Vitya and the Beast were in order to make demands. 

On foot would be feasible in a different season, assuming he could figure out in which direction the castle lay. Yuri had the vaguest notion, but if he pressed Yakov to describe everything from his harrowing journey again and again, he was sure he’d learn what he needed in order to track down the castle estate. In winter, he needed more than his own two feet. The dark pony hadn’t returned after taking Victor off to his doom, and Philua had been killed in the wolf attack. Yuri had no means to purchase the services of a sleigh, but with his share of saved coin he should be able to afford a sturdy mount. At least for long enough to get to Vitya, make the Beast stop the magic, and bring Vitya back home again.

As he dried dishes, lips pressed into a thin line as he thought, Yuri dismissed stable after stable in his list of considerations. Too expensive, horses in uncertain health, or unlikely to accept his coin without speaking with Yakov. The solution he found himself arriving at made him frown harder, even as he steeled his resolve to deal with the distaste the thought left on his tongue: the Mountain Inn. Owned and operated by the Yangs for three generations, it was a decent establishment, keeping good horses and offering good fare no matter the time of year. They didn’t tolerate unruly drunks and provided a smaller stage for dance witches to perform. Ideal, really, but for one big problem.

Isabella Yang’s fiance, Jean Jacques Leroy. Or, as he insisted with everyone he met, _JJ_ Leroy. King of the Mountain (Inn), talented fire witch with his own particular flare that drew audiences to him and his flashy magic and self-inflated sense of importance. As far as Yuri was concerned, anytime JJ helped out with the mandatory civil duties asked of fire witches during the worst of the blackouts, JJ _alone_ was saving the city from darkness and cold. It irritated Yuri beyond the capacity for speech half the time, even worse when JJ would turn around and encourage _Yuri_ with statements like, “Don’t worry, Fire Faerie, one of these days _you’ll_ be the one helping keep this city lit and its people warm and cozy.”

Like he wasn’t already? 

Still, annoyance with JJ aside, the Mountain Inn was his most likely option. Georgi would be too aware of what Yuri was considering, but Mila? He figured he could convince her to go along with him. The Crispino twins and their troupe were housing at the Inn. Mila wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to gossip with Sara, especially since Yuri was usually the one dragged along as ehr minimal escort anyhow. Voluntarily going along should brook him the pass to where he wanted to be in order to broach the subject with Isabella Yang, who ran most the stables for her parents these days.

He was feeling fairly satisfied with his own plans when Georgi picked up the drying rag to his left, working on drying the cleaned dishes left stacked to the side of the sink. His eyes were focused on the rag, motions methodical as he wiped the remnants of water away.

Yuri tensed, eyes flicking to Georgi, then back to the last pot he was determinedly scrubbing out, avoiding speaking. He wasn’t going to invite conversation. Georgi didn’t say anything for the first plate, not even the second. It was at the third that he mused out loud to Yuri. “We all love him too, you know.” Turning the plate with one hand while the other wiped it dry, Georgi glanced over at Yuri. “We all miss him.”

Yuri grimaced, whipping his head around to glare at Georgi. “It’s been two days. I don’t miss him.” Yet. It wasn’t the time passed so far. It was the possibility of it stretching longer, of losing someone he cared about and looked up to in spite of himself that left him twitchy and difficult.

Georgi raised an eyebrow, pulling a look of perfect disbelief. Yuri frowned, staring down at the pot he was scrubbing with now renewed vigour.

“I _don’t._ ”

“Mm, if you say so. Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to remind you of, you know.”

“No, I don’t,” he said, disinclined to listen to Georgi any further. For a man who tended to stumble through his own love life like an intoxicated boar, he was remarkable deft at handling the scale of emotions for just about everything else… when it came to recognition, at least. Such was the present case with Yuri.

Georgi continued, nonplussed, still carefully drying as he spoke. “We love _you_ too. Be careful, Yura.” He paused, fixing a stare on his youngest troupe-mate. “With whatever you’re planning, just be careful.”

What he left unspoken hung between them. _We don’t want to lose you too_. They fell into finishing the dishes in an unhappy silence.

The idea of those words haunted Yuri that night, leaving him tossing and turning and kicking off his sheets and blankets to huddle on the floor next to the hearth. Potya found him there, the cat curling up in his lap and proceeding to purr itself to a pleasant oblivion. He stroked his fingers through long fur on reflex, watching the low fire burn red and orange. A cooler heat than earlier in the night. Equally appreciated.

_Just be careful._

Of course he’d be careful. He drifted off on the floor in a nest of blankets, waking up and grumpily slogging through a breakfast of bread and jam, hogging the last of the apricot for himself. He stuck his tongue out at Mila, only pausing when he realised he needed some negotiation room. He offered the jar over her way, tipping it back and forth in tantalising invitation. “Hey, are you planning to see Sara tonight?”

Mila eyed Yuri and the remains of the jar of apricot jam with narrowed eyes. “If her afternoon’s still free, yes. Why?”

He held the apricot jam jar out, eyes glinting with mischievousness he hoped would mask the underlying determination he felt. Georgi was watching discretely, enjoying his black tea and bread. Yakov was already pacing the room, muttering about who he needed to contact for upcoming performances, mounts, contacting Lilia to see if she had any insight into breaking compulsions without harming the individuals involved. Things Yuri should have listened to; instead he was taking his distraction as an opportunity.

“I’m tagging along.”

She snatched the jar with a teasing grin, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. “Little Yura off to see someone special? Don’t tell me it’s JJ.”

Mila burst out laughing at the look of disgust that crossed Yuri’s face before he bent in half and started faux-retching underneath the table. He straightened up, slamming both hands down. “I’m trying to hold onto my breakfast, don’t be disgusting! Anyway, I’m doing what all of you keep telling me. I’m thinking ahead. We’ll need horses eventually, right? I want to talk to Isabella. That’s all.”

Georgi looked prepared to say something, but he subsisted as Yakov turned back toward the table, jarred out of his worries by the sound of Yuri’s hands slapping against wood. “Yura! That table’s older than you are, be more respectful!”

“Of the table?” He looked off to the side, shrugging his shoulders and dragging his hands back into his lap. “It’s not like it respects me.”

“It’s a table, Yura, and that’s not the point! We don’t mistreat the things we have in our lives. We should be grateful —”

Georgi had his hand up, disguising half his face. He mouthed the words of the familiar lecture along with Yakov, feigning a yawn when Mila found herself giggling, Yakov glaring at them all with suspicious eyes. Georgi wasn’t usually so mischievous, but it broke the mood of the room, Yakov sighing out in exasperation and waving them all out toward the door.

“Out! There’s no dealing with any of you today.”

It sounded like any other day, which felt wrong, disloyal. How could things continue on like normal? Yuri stood and grabbed his coat, pulling his hat and scarf out of one overstuffed pocket, his gloves in the other. Mila was first out the door, calling back for Yuri to come along or she’d leave him behind; Georgi was collecting dishes to leave by the sink in their neat pile of crumbs. Potya jumped up on the side counter, sniffing around for anything interesting.

“Yura.” Yakov laid his hand on Yuri’s shoulder, drawing his attention away from the sight of Georgi shooing Potya away from the plates. 

He briefly met his troupe leader's eyes, letting them slide away again soon after. “What?”

“Look at me.” When Yuri complied, reluctant, Yakov grunted, giving him a small nod of approval. “We’re going to get Vitya back. Acting without thinking was my mistake, and I won’t let it cost us Vitya, but we can’t rush into this blindly. Be patient. You know how to be, I’ve taught you the concept in the last five years even if you pretend otherwise, young idiot.”

Yuri didn’t want to see the depths of the shadows under Yakov’s eyes. He didn’t want to hear the cough that still plagued him, breaking his sentences apart. He hadn’t yet recovered from his own journey, and it was a poignant reminder that Yakov wasn’t young anymore. Everything about their situation felt unfair. Yakov’s biggest worry should be the trouble his troupe would get into directly under his nose, not about enchanted Beast-haunted gardens and his best dance witch being sacrificed on an altar of his own making. Yakov shouldn’t look like a man who hadn’t slept in days. He shouldn’t look like he was appealing to Yuri’s better sense, scant amount that Yuri was able to afford. Yet he did look like all these things, and Yuri found himself muttering agreement without remembering a word of to what he was agreeing. He felt a sharp spike of guilt through his stomach at the brief-lived look of relief that flashed across Yakov’s face, his fingers giving Yuri’s shoulder a squeeze before letting go.

“Off with you then,” he said, gruff, waving him on. Georgi held the door open, poised on the threshold between the darker interior and the too-bright light streaming in from outside. “Be back here well before sunset, you hear me? I’m not tracking down two of you! I don’t have the time for that!”

Georgi smiled as Yuri shrugged off the worry and strode past him. They all knew it was a lie. Yakov would track down any one of them to the ends of the continent if they disappeared without a word.

Family. Not by blood, but by something as binding, more-so even than their magic or the dances they performed as parts of a whole. Family: Victor’s as much as the rest.

Yakov would have to understand. Yuri _couldn’t_ be patient. He was so sure Victor was living on the thin edge of a sharpened knife, any one step enough to slice right through him if he put too much weight down. It was an unhelpfully vibrant mental image, leaving him gritting his teeth as he broke into a jog on the iced streets, catching up with Mila. Georgi called out a farewell, heading down the other way on errands of his own. Probably needing time away from the maelstrom of his troupemate’s emotions. 

Mila was in better cheer than she might have been, falling into a brisk walk and tipping her face back to invite the warm rays of sunlight to chase away the shadows hiding there. He half expected her to say they’d get Victor back too after the way most his morning had gone, but when she tipped her head his way, it was for an entirely different reason.

“For being your excuse to head to the Inn, we’re going shopping. I’ve been saving for new gloves.” She quirked up her eyebrows, lips pulling up into a small, mischievous smile. “We’ve got birthday shopping to get through too, don’t we?”

He could recognise what she was doing. This was a peace offering that required Yuri to suffer through window-shopping with Mila, but a peace offering nonetheless.

“If he’ll even be back by then,” he said, kicking at the snow tucked up against the side of the building the were passing. A small flurry of white scattered before him.

“Georgi will. Vitya will be too.” She leaned in, lowering her eyelashes to peer at Yuri through them. “If we get that out of the way, I’ll treat you to the _pirozhki_ from Nikolai’s bakery…” 

The blatant bribe was irritating, almost as irritating as the fact he felt himself perk up at the possibility. Mila merely grinned, ignoring Yuri’s increasing frown, looping an arm around his shoulders. 

“Deal?”

“... Deal.” Easier to agree in the short term anyway. He’d still end up where he wanted to be by the afternoon. Plenty of time to negotiate with Isabella.

* * *

“Who are you looking at, horse face?”

Yuri glared at the horse leaning out of the stall down the way, watching him prepare to dance with apparent interest. Snorting and tossing its mane, the horse nickered and perked its ears forward, hopeful for a treat.

Yuri stuck out his tongue instead, turning around so his back faced his interested party. He’d finally managed to talk to Isabella, only to find himself being asked to perform what he thought of as maintenance magic, renewing the fire wards on the lamps used in the stables during times of magical fluctuations. He’d agreed instead of asking why JJ couldn’t be bothered to do it, looking for a way of ingratiating himself to Isabella just enough to make his business known.

It still rankled. He knew this dance, in the style that Yakov had him learn. Working with live flame and wooing it into embracing its confines, thriving on the promise of its hunger being fed as long as it wasn’t too greedy.

It was a relatively simple spell to work, Yuri centering himself with his breathing, standing in the middle of the stable walkway. His hands were cupped in front of his chest, holding the air between them. He envisioned the fire being held there, contained and quiet, a gentle blaze. He focused in until his mind was that flame, and then he began to move.

Fire burned to bring life, and fire burned to destroy. Fire burned quickly, and fire burned slow. He was reminding the fire here what it was to be gentle; he swayed from side to side, calling the magic to him, feeling the pinpoints of warmth against his sense of magic that marked each little fire burning in its glass and metal container on the stable beams.

One by one, Yuri called to the magic, sending it to brush against each of the small fires. Every time he linked to one fire, he took a step and swayed to the side, tugging on the connection. To anyone watching, the fires he captured bobbed and swayed with him, tiny flames in glass moving to invisible winds.

The trick to this kind of binding was to tell the fire the story Yuri wanted it to remember. The faded echo of the last story was a brush against his senses, one he brushed aside. Yuri wouldn’t tell someone else’s story. He would tell his own, and he would do better work than anyone who’d come before. He refused to accept any other outcome.

So he danced the song for the fire once he had each small flame connected to the hollow space he held in his hands. Magic pulsed there, invisible to all but those who could recognise the feeling, who saw magic through the sensations that defined every witch’s life. Yuri continued his gentle sway, shifting the pattern of his movement as he spun in a slow, flowing circle. The flames in their lamps followed suit, twisting in an unseen wind.

Yuri moved into a slow four-beat dance, timed to the tempo of his heartbeat. Ba- _bump,_ step, ba- _bump,_ step, ba- _bump,_ spin, ba- _bump,_ sway. A slow, steady burn; a warmth that Yuri encouraged to build, then let go, burning cool and low, content.

Impatience plagued him, intruding in, but he tamped down on it as much as he could. He didn’t need to confuse the story he was telling the flames, shaking his head and frowning as he continued to dance down the aisle, lifting his hands in degrees as he went. Patience was difficult to dance for the flames; he had to, in spite of his own impatience. He could feel the magic settling in around each of the points of flame tied to the magic held in his hands as one by one, each fire started to echo back the story Yuri was guiding with his dance.

A slow, steady burn. Warmth that provided light, but that was content, that wasn’t greedy. Gentle fire.

The flames in the stable were less wild than many Yuri had encountered, already contained and used to being danced into reflecting the narrative the Yangs preferred. It was a fact that fire spelled by a fire witch could be convinced to burn more slowly, to throw fewer sparks, to give more time for those around to react in the case of accidents. It worked best with small fires, small flames: lamps and candles and such things. Fire in greater quantities took too much magic to bind effectively, the inherent wildness of large fire making even seemingly docile blazes unpredictable in potentially dangerous ways. Containing and mitigating magics were usually worked on the hearths the fires resided in, rather than on the fires themselves.

Yet these were all small flames, and Yuri had been dancing fire into calm since he was ten years old. Yes, under the guidance of another witch until he was thirteen, but that was close to three years ago.

His own frustration bubbled up as he spun into the end of his dance, his hands held overhead. Yuri came to a stop, head tipped back, staring at his hands held clasped overhead. He was breathing harder than the exercise should merit, his mental focus needing to be precise, keeping all the little fires in tune and convincing them, one by one, to remember the tale of burning he danced true.

Yuri pulled on that magic, hands slowly opening as he in turn slowly, carefully released each of the strands of magic he’d been holding. The lamplight flickered as one flame after another found itself separated and freed from the whole. Yuri’s hands stayed open, fingers splayed, offering the emptiness of his palms to the hayloft overhead. His breathing was slowing down as the magic drained away, released back to where it had come from while the smaller magics woven around each flame stayed, looping around and around, dancing the story with the flame as it burned.

Applause found him from the entryway to the stables, Isabella looking to the lamp burning steady by her head with a small, pleased smile on her lips.

“Beautifully done,” she said, hands held in front of her, resting light against her chest. “Almost as lovely as when JJ renews the binding.” 

Yuri visibly frowned, hands whipping back down as he glared her way. He had to remind himself he needed her assistance, and that he didn’t actually mind Isabella past her tendency to mention how great JJ was at every opportunity. Georgi said it was how love went sometimes. Yuri personally found it ridiculous.

“You could have asked him to do it.”

“I did,” she said, shaking her head as she stepped into the stables, holding up a small bundle of coins and a container of what was likely water. It was a small kindness that only those who worked with dance witches recognised, particularly those who worked with fire witches. Their affinity for magic had a tendency to leave them thirsty after intricate works, along with increasing their core temperature by a few degrees for some time after. Yuri was appreciating the heat; he’d enjoy the added buffer on the way home tonight. “He’s been so busy with the city the last week, he hasn’t had the time. We could wait longer, but with the new moon…”

Yuri frowned, brushing his hair back behind his ears. It was the new moon again tonight. Isabella didn’t have to worry about the fear plaguing the city’s witches in the same way Yuri did, but she worried often and vocally on JJ’s behalf. Still, it wasn’t concern for JJ that had Isabella mentioning the time of the month. While surges of magic could be unpredictable, there’d been a large one in parts of the city almost every new moon for the last nine months. It wasn’t unheard of for spells to break down if they were weak enough, and while no major accidents had yet occurred, people didn’t want to take chances. Better safe than sorry.

“Whatever, it’s not my business anyway.” He turned to march back to his coat, hung on a peg next to an empty stall. Pulling it on, Yuri started layering back up, almost stifling with heat for the moment. He’d whine to Mila about it if she was lingering too long in the inn. “Do you know if Mila’s ready to leave?”

Isabella waited close to the doors, keeping the small bundle of coins resting in her open palm. She frowned, canting her head to the side. “I suppose she would have been, but aren’t you staying over until dawn?”

The question threw Yuri off the careful plan he had to ask her about costs behind borrowing a mount for a matter of days. “What?” Eyes widening, he jogged down the aisle, looking past her out into the growing darkness of twilight. Much more time had passed than he’d realised. It accounted for his exhaustion and his thirst, accepting the mug of water without thinking about it as he stared into the dimness with wide, unhappy eyes. “There’s no way it’s this late already!”

Isabella laughed, a sound softened only by the way she glanced over her shoulder into the twilight darkness, rubbing her freed hand against her upper arm. “I didn’t want to interrupt your dancing. We can set you up with a spare pallet in the Crispino Troupe’s rooms, but you really shouldn’t be walking back tonight. It’s not safe.”

Yuri’s fingers curled into useless fists at his side. Yakov was already worrying, and most the time, that wouldn’t bother Yuri overmuch. Yakov worried: the sky was blue. Everything with Victor changed those considerations. It pissed Yuri off, but short of picking up a torch and rushing off through the night…

Yet what were the chances of anything happening? Not much, he decided. He and Mila would brave the night and get back home, or at least Yuri would. Staying at the Inn when JJ was likely in residence sounded like a special kind of torment. “It’s not full dark, if we hurry, we’ll be fine.”

Isabella closed her hand around the bundle of coins, brow furrowing. “Yuri, what if something happened? It’s not worth taking the chance. We’re not going to charge you for staying if you’re worried about that. It’s not safe to head out again this late!”

Yuri set his shoulders, brushing past her and heading into the open yard between the stables and the inn proper. “Nothing’s going to happen,” he said. What the hell could? 

He could hear Isabella turning around, her boots tapping against the packed dirt and ice. “You don’t know that.”

“You don’t know that it will.” Nor did Yuri know that it wouldn’t, and he registered that thought even as he felt a swell and surge of magic in the area, lines that normally hummed quietly in the backdrop thrumming with an overwhelming urgency he felt in his blood. Yuri stiffened, straightening up and cutting off any lingering contact with the fires in the stables behind him. Every light flared, from the ones hung between the buildings to the ones inside; magic responding to the powerful surge crashing through the area.

The side door to the inn flew open, someone Yuri didn’t look to see stumbling out. All of his focus was on a point in the deepening darkness where the magic swirled, pooling with a feeling almost like hunger, fraught with need and an odder sense of mourning and regret. He felt fear course through him in the moment before two eyes flashed in that darkness, reflecting red in the light of the streetlamps as they flickered back into the steady burn of witchlight and flame alike.

“JJ!” Isabella choked out her fiance’s name, Yuri taking a step back as the eyes in the darkness were joined by a growl that rumbled through him, jarring. The eyes stalked closer, moving like a predator, unblinking and focused on Yuri and Yuri alone.

_Shit_.

He could still feel the distortion of magic, darkness spreading out from where the creature walked, swallowing the radiance of what light tried to penetrate. For a moment, he felt almost bewitched in his fear, unable to look away from the growling eyes that reflected red in the remaining light. That moment shattered as someone moved at his side, stepping forward and throwing a lantern to the ground. The resulting shatter of glass and clang of metal on dirt and ice broke through, Yuri jerking his head back and cursing, loud and high.

“What the hell is that?”

“Don’t worry,” JJ said, tossing his cloak over his arm as he brought that hand up, fingers together, palm facing out and perpendicular to his body. “Whatever it is, JJ will handle it. Get Isabella inside!”

It all happened too fast. Yuri’s anger flared and burned hotter than his fear as JJ made an abortive motion, sending the sputtering flame of his broken lantern rushing at the creature in the darkness. Yuri stepped forward, reaching for magic on his own, calling it to him and the half formed movements he had in mind. The small wall of flame thrown at the creature hit and washed over it, swallowed by the darkness with a sigh Yuri felt instead of heard.

There was a moment of visibility as the flames hit, outlining a form that seemed to stand as tall as a horse on four sturdy legs ending in clawed paws. Teeth bared as the growl rolled forth turned into what Yuri thought of as a roar, a wall of sound that left his ears ringing even while the creature surged forward. One bound, two, and then it was on JJ, pushing him down to the ground hard enough that Yuri thought he heard a crack as JJ’s back and head hit the ground. It was a rolling force of teeth and claws cloaked in a darkness so thick it was impossible to see what was going on.

JJ had only cried out when the creature leapt, Isabella screaming his name in the silence after; Yuri reacted desperately, reaching for the flame in the closest outside lamp. The fire there responded, too eager, sparks flying against the glass and slipping past metal fixture to cascade down toward the ground.

Not enough, and not fast enough. Yuri had no elegance to his movement, demanding the magic and fire respond to his desperate need. Thrusting the fire out toward the darkness that had consumed JJ, the rough form of magic spluttered and sparked, hissing as it hit the ground. The creature was caught in the angry red and orange light, teeth hooked into the shoulder of JJ’s cloak, dragging him backward while a line of blood trickled down over his forehead. Yuri’s stomach lurched as he started to call on the magic again, slamming his hands together and stamping one foot as he called out, “Coward, _get back here!_ ”

Isabella cried out again, running forward past Yuri with her hands outstretched. “ _JJ!_ ” The light of Yuri’s fire faded and fizzled, darkness consuming the yard once again. Yuri forced the magic to respond, calling it to him and pulling the roughest form of witchlight together out of pilfered fire and pure energy, feeling the pain course through him from the lack of preparation. He threw the hybrid witchlight forward, knowing it wouldn’t last long, being neither properly one thing or the other. He didn’t need longevity. They needed to _see_.

The creature had already dragged JJ to the limits of the circle of light Yuri generated. In its flickering glow, Yuri and Isabella raced forward, trying to catch up with the massive, furred form that crouched down low, gathering itself to jump, JJ limp at its feet. They were still two meters away when the creature launched upward, a blur of darkness dragging the limp JJ along with it as it disappeared into the night.

Isabella called out his name again and again, sounding increasingly more hysterical. “JJ! No, _JJ!_ Give him back! _Give him back right now!_ ” She stumbled, falling to her knees close to where a single glove lay on the dirty ice of the ground. 

Yuri trembled in the aftermath of the adrenaline and ongoing fear, stomach rebelling as the stress washed through him. He stared at the point in the darkness where the creature had disappeared; at where JJ had last been, bleeding, motionless, on the ground.

Later, he would deny having bent over and vomited as people spilled out of the inn, responding to Isabella’s cries. He’d deny the tears that burned in his eyes, partly because of the burn of bile in his throat, coating his tongue, partly because of the horrific frustration and fear and guilt that chased each other around in his chest.

But in the moment, Yuri had nothing to face except for himself, and the sickening knowledge that while JJ had been taken, it should have been him.

It should have been Yuri. 

The guilt of that thought plagued him all that night, while he was questioned by the Yangs, by Mila, by the first law officer to be summoned while the curfew kept most respectable citizens indoors on that night especially. It continued to plague him for days after, when discussions about classifying the attack as an animal or _something else_ kept people talking. When no other announcement of a missing witch came out of the evening, another more solemn possibility began to emerge.

For the first time, an attack on a witch on the new moon had not happened when that witch was alone.

And for the first time, they had a potential lead, though it seemed increasingly unlikely that any of the victims, JJ included, could possibly still be alive.

No one agreed on the truth behind that possibility. The Leroys and Changs were amoung those who insisted JJ and the rest had to still be alive. Yuri had to tune it out to keep himself sane, waking up from nightmares of those eyes, the growl, the sight of JJ bloodied and then _gone_. It was the frustration and helplessness of Victor’s leaving with the frustration and helplessness of the attack and JJ’s disappearance.

He ran into Isabella on accident five days after JJ had disappeared. She called out to him, looking too serious, eyes swollen and serious in their regard. Yuri felt that guilt again, shoving it down, knowing it was stupid, knowing he had nothing to do with JJ’s actions. Yuri had been in reach of the creature too. Isabella knew.

“You were going to ask me for something that night.”

It wasn’t the line of conversation Yuri had expected. His eyes widened, then narrowed. “Yes?”

She searched his face, nodding her head once. “What was it?”

He felt stupid telling her, but he refused to lie. Squaring his shoulders, he straightened up, looking her steady in the eyes. “I wanted to know how much it’d cost to use a horse for several days.”

“Why?”

He hesitated, frowning. “There’s somewhere I needed to get to, too far for walking.”

Isabella frowned a little, canting her head to the side. Her hands smoothed over her shirt; she shook her head. “That’s only part of an answer. Where were you trying to go? Why did you need to be there?”

He hesitated for even longer then. “I was going to find Vitya.”

“Victor?” She looked vaguely surprised, frown growing more intense. “What happened to Victor? He’s not in the city right now?”

With a shake of his head, Yuri debated over how much to share. “No, he was taken.”

Before he could continue, Isabella reached out to grab hold of his upper arm. “Taken? Like JJ?”

“No — _no_. Yakov picked a freaking flower and Vitya’s being held hostage over it.”

It said something for the amount of absurdity Isabella had absorbed in the last few horrific days that she blinked, opened her mouth, then shut it once more. Belief or truth, all that mattered to her was the end result. The Feltsman Troupe was allowed to have problems of its own that she had nothing to do with, personally.

“So you’re trying to get to Victor and... “

“Bring him back home.”

Yuri’s certainty made the words cut and dry, almost a challenge. Isabella regarded him with a level look, blinking her eyes rapidly as if she were fighting back tears. Then she nodded, still holding on to his arm.

“Okay. Yuri, you get your horse to find Victor and bring him back, in exchange for one thing.”

He already knew what it would be. That he had no ability to promise a second impossible task on top of the first he’d given himself. That he was rushing, and Yakov and everyone else said to slow down. 

“To help you find JJ?”

Isabella nodded, tears starting to trail down over her cheeks. “Yes. I help you bring Victor back home, and you help me find my fiance.”

He didn’t give himself any option but to agree. 

* * *

**In the present…**

These were part of his muzzy thoughts now that he was on the black pony, heading for the city once more. He needed to find Isabella. They’d have to figure out another way to Victor, then investigate where JJ could have been taken. How far had the creature been able to jump?

The pony lifted his head, tossing his mane and stamping a foot in the snow, calling out in a whinny. An answering whinny came from over the rise, where a tired looking Isabella sat stiff in her saddle, saddlebags tied to either side. The sense of relief that flooded through Yuri was short lived, too much energy to do more than register that she looked unhurt, and the horse, too. Which was good, he thought, or else how was he going to convince her to let him ride out again?

She sounded tired and worried when she called out to him, one hand cupped around her mouth.

“You have a pony?”

Yuri made a dismissive gesture in return. “On loan. I think. He has his own opinions.”

The pony snorted, tossing his tail and taking point as they continued on toward the city. 

“... I see that,” she said, leaving the remark light even as she was focused solely on the horse. 

Yuri shivered, drawing his coat tight around him. “Isabella, what happened? When the wolves were there and the horse bolted and I fell.”

She went still, staring straight ahead past him into the distance. “My horse spooked. I didn’t realise why until afterward. I thought it was the wolves, and I tried to get back to you, but this… dog? I don’t know, it was big, and maybe it was a wolf too, only it never howled at all.” She kept her grip on her horse’s reins, gloves creaking against the leather. “Every time I tried to turn back, it would appear and chase the horse off again. Yuri,” she said, looking directly at him, “I was coming back for you.”

He didn’t have the energy to argue, nor the inclination. Instead, he nodded his head once. He didn’t doubt her intent. The dog that’d chased her away… maybe it was a wolf, too. Maybe it was entirely unrelated. “... I know.” She had no reason to lie. Not about the dog-wolf or whatever it was either.

All of this was making his headache worse.

Conversation was stilted until they both fell into an exhausted silence, the black pony leading them back into the city hours later. Isabella directed her tired horse up the streets toward the Mountain Inn only after seeing the pony deliver Yuri to his own front door. The faded paint looked even more worn in the morning light.

He made sure she was gone before he addressed the pony, having wrestled with difficult thoughts the entire ride back. Guilty, confusing thoughts, ones that irritated him and made him feel all these emotions he didn’t appreciate in turns.

Yuri had to lean against the pony after he dismounted, clinging to the saddle to keep his legs from collapsing underneath him. It felt pathetic, but he shoved down on that frustration in order to address an important point. “Horse. Listen, okay? It’s Vitya’s birthday in a week and a half. Make sure he doesn’t… don’t let that idiot celebrate alone, okay?”

He poked the pony in the shoulder, earning him a flat stare while the pony seemed to consider the statement. Then much like it’d nodded hours past out in the snow, the pony nodded again. It was unsettling, but also almost reassuring. Not because the pony would do anything. 

It meant maybe there _was_ a chance that Victor would continue to be okay, even if they didn’t manage to bring him before his birthday.

* * *

Victor woke with his face pressed against the back of one hand, legs entangled with Yuri’s, an arm draped over his shoulder, resting against his side. He felt fur against his neck, satin soft, heard Yuri’s quiet, even breathing as he slit his eyes open, stifling a yawn. The blinds were pulled, cutting off most of the outside light. He had no idea what time it was as he pulled himself off Yuri, rolling onto his back and squirming free. Yuri shifted with a grunt, causing Victor to go still, wondering if he’d jostled his injuries. He relaxed as Yuri resettled his arm across his own chest, breathing out in a sigh.

Makkachin stood up to wag her tail at Victor as he pushed himself up off the bed. She was relaxed, not heading for the door to beg to go out; Victor blinked blearily as he ran his fingers through the curls of her forehead, fingers sliding back around her ears. “Good morning,” he said, keeping his voice low. She licked his hand, leaping up to plant her feet on his legs, licking at his face.

He laughed, turning his head to the side to avoid an unintentional mouth or nose full of tongue. Victor glanced back to Yuri, feeling almost guilty if he’d woken him up, but he continued to sleep on, looking more relaxed in his present state than he did most the time while awake. If it weren’t for the bandages Victor had wrapped him in the night before, Yuri might have even looked peaceful.

Like this, Victor could feel the weight of other realities start to intrude. He stood and headed for the restroom, splashing water on his face and taking care of business in the too-bright room. No curtains were pulled in here. He could tell from the lack of shadows cast long outside that it was close to midday, a testament to how exhausted they’d both been. It wasn’t going to get easier. Victor had to talk with Yuri about his magic, his second element. Dancing wouldn’t be reasonable until Yuri’s shoulder was fully healed, but with the magic building on the estate day by day, neither of them could afford to slack off now.

There was no ideal solution. Yuri had to rest to heal; he had to train in order to handle his magic and the magic that flowed around him. Victor would need to come up with a means of addressing both concerns while bumping Yuri into higher levels of practice; relying on knowing patterns of movement in his mind, manipulating the magic to follow those patterns, and releasing the magic to complete his directive. It required a give and take, though perhaps ironically, Yuri was in a good place to begin that practice on himself.

Victor returned to the bedroom proper to find Yuri had woken in the meantime, sitting himself up and poking gingerly at the bandages over his shoulder. “Good morning,” he said, ears canted Victor’s way. Yuri lifted his head to squint in Victor’s direction. “We’re in your rooms?”

“It was easier for me to get us here than your suite. How’s your shoulder feeling?”

Yuri grimaced, fingers running over the bandages. “Painful. How bad was it?”

Victor came around to his side, leaning in to examine the bandages himself. Yuri tipped his muzzle away, not meeting Victor’s gaze when they were this close. “Mostly puncture wounds. How much of last night do you remember?” Victor sat down on the bed, checking for any bleedthrough on the back of Yuri’s shoulder. 

“Before or after we reached the wolves?”

“Either or,” Victor said. 

Yuri frowned, ears flicking back. “I felt something was wrong, we rode out. By the time we got there, the wolves had two people surrounded. One of them fell… you know them. What was their name?”

Yuri turned to face Victor, brow furrowed clearly enough that Victor had to resist the urge to lift a hand and try to smooth out the lines on Yuri’s forehead. “Yura.”

He blinked, opening his mouth, then breathing out in a small sound of amusement. “The impatient member of your troupe.”

Victor found himself smiling, chuckling under his breath as he sat back, studying Yuri as a whole. “Mila isn’t always known for her patience either, but yes. Yura is young enough to believe nothing in the world happens fast enough for his liking.” Victor could remember being that way when he was younger, too, though how he handled it had been different. His temper had never been what Yura’s was.

“Things don’t always happen as quickly as we like,” Yuri said, agreeing with a sigh. His ears briefly tipped back, thoughts turned inward. Victor watched him without speaking, waiting for him to continue. He didn’t have to wait long. “Um, where was I? Yura fell off the horse, and the other person was on the horse when it ran. Then we were there, and the wolves were attacking? I didn’t see which one got me. I can’t remember in all the confusion.” Yuri admitted while his hands fidgeted, fingers twisting together in his lap.

It wasn’t what Victor wanted to hear, but it wasn’t surprising. Not after he’d seen what happen last night. 

“Do you remember fighting?”

Yuri pulled his head back, turning his muzzle to stare directly at Victor. “What?”

Victor spoke calmly, holding Yuri’s gaze. “Do you remember fighting the wolves.”

Yuri started to shake his head. “Me? No. I remember growling, I remember the witchlight, and the horses, I think you injured one of the wolves?” His ears pressed back against his head, broadcasting a distress Victor felt like a cold weight in his stomach. Yuri didn’t know?

“You were fighting right along with the rest of us.” He leaned in, resting his hand next to Yuri’s leg on the bed. “Yuri, why didn’t you tell me you were a shadow witch? If I’m helping you learn to control your magic, I need to know _every_ kind of magic you have.”

Yuri was caught staring at Victor, close enough that their noses almost touched. He shivered, tongue feeling thick in his mouth. That word, _shadow_ , echoed in his ears, setting his heart beating faster. Shadow magic, shadow witch. “No,” he said, pulling his head back. “No I’m not. I don’t _have_ shadow magic. I can’t!”

Victor frowned, brow furrowing, one line between his eyes. Yuri wanted to poke it, to make some offhand joke, to distract Victor’s formidable attention from what Yuri had so stupidly, wishfully claimed. “You do. Yuri, we need to change how we’re training. You need to work with controlling your shadow magic as well as your water magic. We needed to change how we train while your shoulder’s healing anyway. We’ll add this in at the same time.”

Yuri shook his head, hard. “No, we don’t need to, I don’t want anything to do with it. I have water magic, that’s enough. All I need to do is learn how to better use that, you said that would be fine. You said that’d help!”

Yuri was breathing too shallow, starting to pant. Victor didn’t understand, not between the apparent denial or how Yuri was working himself up. He reached out as Makkachin whined, coming over and sitting down at Yuri’s feet. Victor’s hands slid into the fur framing Yuri’s face, finding the planes of his cheeks, the curve of his jaw. Fully facing him, Victor kept his voice even, his gaze intent. Not the right language if he were dealing with a dog, he knew, but he was not. He was dealing with a man he found himself… no, he _knew_ he cared about. Ridiculous and unplanned, but true nonetheless.

Victor couldn’t sit there and not _try_ to act, even if he had no idea what to do, let alone what to say. Shouting was what he knew from Yakov. He didn’t feel like that was going to help here and now.

Victor breathed in, looking for the right words. Settling on whatever came to mind to try and capture how he felt.

“Yuri, listen. Remember what I said before? If you need someone to be your confidence, I’ll be your confidence. I know you can handle this. I said learning how to manage the magic here will help, yes, and if I’d known you had two elements, I would have had you working with both the whole time. Learning about it now gives us two weeks to help you prepare. It won’t be perfect. It won’t be easy, but it _will_ be better than it has been before. If it isn’t, if it doesn’t help at all, I’ll take responsibility.” He swallowed, unsure what the hell he even meant. If he couldn’t help Yuri, then he’d… what? Leave? Find Yuri a more experienced dance witch who could help him learn to master his control and response to the magic within and around him? 

Yuri was looking at him with wide eyes, hands coming up to circle Victor’s wrists. His ears were pointed forward, listening intently to Victor’s every word. Hearing Victor swallow yet again, he didn’t doubt. “I’ll leave and find you someone who _can_ help.”

Yuri stared at him, ears quivering, swiveling out to the sides of his head. His hands around Victor’s wrists trembled, then tightened, just enough to be holding on.

Then, to Victor’s surprise, Yuri started crying. Tears slipped down furred cheeks, framing Yuri’s muzzle where it met the rest of his face. Victor could feel them drip down onto his bare arm.

He felt small and squirmy inside, mouth opening, no sound coming out at first. _Shit_. “Yuri, I’m sorry, I —” He had no idea what to do with tears he was responsible for, and there was no way he wasn’t responsible here. “What should I do? Do you want a hug? A cake? A kiss? Is your shoulder hurting?” Desperate for either an explanation or a solution, Victor tried pulling his hands away, his own eyes wide and expression mildly panicky.

Yuri held on, pulling Victor’s hands down to his lap. Yuri flinched as the motion jarred his shoulder, but he didn’t check his tears. He hadn’t wanted to hear about his shadow magic, but for it to keep going on, for Victor to say he would be Yuri’s confidence and turn around to say he’d _leave_ if things didn’t work out?

“Why would you say that?” Yuri demanded, his words losing some of their clarity as tears continued falling down his face, rolling over fur. “Telling me you’ll be my confidence, and then saying if it doesn’t work, you’ll leave? How can you be confident for me if you aren’t even confident enough to stay!”

“Yuri, I didn’t mean it —”

“Then why would you _say_ it?” He was shouting, he knew it, Victor looking stunned and at a loss for what to do. Yuri’s muzzle dipped down, blinking his eyes fast to try and clear the haze of water distorting his already imperfect vision. “I _know_ it’s not going to make it stop. I know it won’t make things better just because I’m trying harder now! It’s not new. I’m _used_ to failing. I’m used to figuring things out as I go. I’m afraid that messing this up will reflect badly on _you!_ ”

His fingers twitched, Yuri forcing himself to loosen his hold on Victor’s wrists. He barreled on, not sure he’d be able to start again if he let Victor interrupt him now. His nose was starting to drip, making for an awkward sniffling he couldn’t quite manage. He didn’t even have a shirt to try and wipe his nose off against, so he bore with it, ignoring how grotesque he had to look. 

“I’m not asking you to solve my problems, Victor. You can’t. I’m asking that you _mean_ it when you say you’ll believe in me when I can’t. If you’re my confidence when I don’t have any, then _stay by my side_. I don’t need someone else if I mess up, Victor. All I need is for you to believe that I’ll do better the next time!”

Victor moved his hands, reaching for Yuri’s. He both did and didn’t understand, but he tried to smile, giving Yuri’s hands a light squeeze. “I know you will. Yuri, I’m not planning on going anywhere, okay? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” 

Makkachin whined again at their feet, resting her nose against Yuri’s foot. Yuri barely noticed, snot nosed and damp eyed, staring at Victor as Victor stared back.

“Is that what you want me to be, Yuri? Your mentor?”

Yuri shook his head, tensing. Did Victor still not understand?

Victor felt a little at a loss. “Your servant?”

Yuri stiffened in subtle outrage, confused on top of anxious. “No!”

“Your family?”

“ _No_.”

Victor paused, blinking. If he wasn’t supposed to be any of those things, then what? He hazarded a guess. “Your lover?”

Oh, that was too much. Yuri jolted to his feet, awkwardly stepping over Makkachin and keeping Victor’s hands in his. He had to brace himself to stare down into Victor’s upturned face, Makkachin staring up at him too from between his feet. “No, no, _no_! I want you to be _Victor_. Victor, who believes in me when I can’t. Victor, who said he’d be my confidence when I couldn’t find my own. Just Victor!”

Just Victor, who was staring up at Yuri, once again caught off guard. His surprise was easy to read on his face, as if for everything he’d said, he couldn’t imagine this being the answer. It took him a moment to respond, looking at Yuri with his dripping nose and wet eyes, the bandages around his torso and shoulder, the fact he could feel the weight of Yuri’s hands in his, that snot and tears alike had dripped down and splattered against both their forearms. It was absurd, and Victor wasn’t entirely sure how he’d managed to bungle this so badly, but even that was muffled at the complicated simplicity of Yuri’s request.

_I want you to be Victor_.

He found himself smiling, small, earnest. Meeting the look of Yuri’s hurting determination and accepting that he’d helped caused it, been solely responsible really, but he didn’t have to keep making that mistake.

“Okay,” he said at last. “I think I can manage to just be Victor for you.” In all his idiosyncrasies, with all his heart. He didn’t let go, or try to offer his hands for shaking. They’d made that gesture before. They’d clasped hands promising to try and see if the dancing would work to help make the magic be less overwhelming. It only seemed fitting that in agreeing now, they simply maintained the point of contact they already had.

It felt right.

Yuri nodded his head, managing to look almost regal despite the trails of tears and drying snot on his muzzle. “Okay. Good. I… good.” He paused, tail swooshing behind him. “Now I’d really like a bath, if it’s the same to you.”

“Of course, I wanted to check the wound and see about the castle’s healing…” Victor loosened his grip as Yuri pulled his hands away, finally rubbing the heel of one hand across the front of his muzzle. He grimaced, ears canting back in displeasure at what he found.

“Don’t tell me I shouldn’t be soaking.”

“Ah, well…”

Yuri sighed, rubbing his good hand over his face. The ache of his shoulder left him tucking the injured arm up against his chest now, the rest of his emotions no longer more pressing than the physical pain he was enduring. “Fine, I won’t soak my shoulder. I’m still cleaning up.”

Victor nodded, knowing he would be following Yuri down to the baths to be on hand and change his bandages after the fact. He had no particular desire to argue against Yuri going if he felt well enough to go. “Great! I’ll join you. I’m still in yesterday’s clothing. Can you believe that?” He plucked at his shirt and mock-pouted, as if he were genuinely used to daily bathing schedules instead of finding such to be a kind of incredible luxury. 

They both appreciated the settling into more neutral territory after their conversation. The unfinished part would resume after they were both cleaned up, and Yuri’s injuries rebandaged. For now, Yuri could nod and step back, Makkachin shaking herself off as she scrambled to her feet. “Considering I’m still in what’s left of yesterday’s clothing, I can, actually.” He lightened his tone of voice, letting it be a jest instead of the sarcasm he was just as capable of using. He started toward the door, then stopped, struck by a thought.

“Oh, and Victor…” Yuri trailed off, glancing back over his shoulder, head held high.

Victor pushed up to his feet, turning his head toward Yuri. “Yes?”

“You have morning breath.” Yuri faced forward and continued right on toward the hall, tail-tip twitching in petty satisfaction.

He only smiled when one ear canted backward picked up the sound of Victor’s startled laughter, then the much more subtle sound of Victor breathing into a cupped hand. _Hah_.

* * *

Victor’s plan was simple, once he had Yuri sitting down on the glass floor over the indoor pond. He joined Yuri on the floor, the both of them sitting on cushions and peering down into the waters below.

“I still don’t see how this is going to help,” Yuri said, fiddling with the clip for his glasses. 

Victor gently tapped one finger against the glass. “We have all three elements we need here with us. We’re using the patterns in our mind, thinking about how we’d move through them, how the magic would need to move with us. Like I was showing you with the healing magic of the castle.”

Yuri felt himself heat up, opening his mouth as if that would allow the embarrassment to escape. He hadn’t wanted to tell Victor he’d been so distracted by the patterns he’d been drawing against Yuri’s fur to encourage the healing magic of the castle to work more efficiently that he could barely remember what Victor had been saying. He shivered, feeling the ghost of Victor’s touch over his shoulder, so careful, so deliberate.

No, he didn’t feel like telling that to Victor. He grunted.

Victor took it to mean Yuri didn’t understand the link. He fixed him with a quiet look, letting his eyes fall back down to the shapes that flitted past underneath. “The challenge is to stay where we’re sitting, but to move the water from here. You can use your fingers, but that’s all. No dancing with your body. Only your mind.”

“Meaning I’m thinking about what the dance will look like, and… concentrating on that? Letting my fingers trace the steps, or something?”

Victor beamed, relieved that his explanation had made sense enough for Yuri to repeat it back, somewhat changed. “Yes! We’re using our fingers to remember the dance so we can direct that magic. It works best on smaller magics, unless you’re very familiar with working a larger spell. Some of the most complicated spells are done with minimal movement to conserve energy, but it’s rare to see anything like that these days. I have a feeling you’ve already been doing something like this without knowing.”

Victor traced a circle on the glass with his index finger seeing Yuri glance his way from the corner of his eye.

“Why would you say that?”

“Mm, the gardening. You still need to show me the greenhouse, Yuri. I want to understand what your relationship with magic’s been like. You put the most of yourself into your work out there from what I can tell.” He started spiraling in from his initial circle, leaving his finger in uninterrupted contact with the glass.

Yuri looked away from the movement of Victor’s finger on glass, staring down through the waters, watching their shadows far below. Victor was right. Yuri knew that, but he kept hesitating, holding out.

“After the new moon,” he said, as if he hadn’t put this off before. “I’ll take you then.”

Victor let the silence fall between them, continuing his spiral until his finger came to a final stop. He lifted his head, expression serious. “The day after.”

Yuri closed his eyes. He breathed in, the memory of the last new moon still fresh and raw in his mind. “The day after.”

Victor nodded, accepting that final stall on what he felt was increasingly important. Still, Yuri had agreed, again, and Victor would see that he followed through. For now, they had work to do. “All right. For now, what we’re going to focus on is suggesting movement to the water’s current. See the false water weeds over there?”

Yuri squinted, making out their shape after searching in the direction Victor indicated. “The blue ones?”

Victor thought they looked more green, but he nodded. Nothing was particularly blue down there anyway. “We’ll be asking the water to move in a simple shape. Like this.” He traced his finger into the infinity symbol, slow and repetitive on the surface of the glass. “We’ll know it’s working when we feel and see the water weeds responding.”

Yuri nodded, nose twitching as he finally thought about what else Victor had said. “You said all three elements we need are here. Don’t you mean all two?”

Victor blinked, holding up his hand to count off the ones he meant. “Water, shadow, light? Air too, but air’s really everywhere. Fire’s in the hearth if we want to get technical, but that’s further away in here, probably for the sake of the glass and the pond.”

Looking up, Yuri frowned at the witchlight in the middle of the room. Right now they could still use the electricity about half the time, but the magic had built up around the estate enough that it was prone to gentle surges just annoying enough to Yuri that he avoided using electricity whenever possible. “We’re using the witchlight?”

Following the line of Yuri’s vision, Victor quirked up his eyebrows. “ _That_ one?” Why would he have meant the one in the room? He looked back to Yuri, chuckling. “No, I meant mine.”

It took a long moment for Yuri to piece together what Victor meant. The last night felt like such a blur that when understanding struck, he gasped. “You! That witchlight! I’d never seen one work like that before.” He leaned forward, good hand planted on the glass as his eyes sparkled with excitement. “How did you make that work? It was incredible, I…”

Yuri took in Victor’s look, eyes narrowing a fraction. He’d half understood what Victor meant. He was beginning to suspect the rest of the truth. “That’s not it. You have two elements too, don’t you? Water and _light_. That’s why you could do all of that with the witchlight.” Yuri sat back, tail wagging across the floor behind him. He grinned, uncaring of how it exposed his far too sharp teeth. “Incredible! I had no idea!” How could Victor get any more amazing?

For his part, Victor breathed out and smiled, bringing one knee up to rest his arm across it. “I thought you’d guessed after last night, but you probably don’t remember when I blinded everyone, do you?”

Yuri blinked, dumbfounded. “You what. What? When?”

“When the wolves needed to be driven back. Anyway, that was then, this is now. _Today_ I’ll be sending a small light into the water. That way the fish won’t see our shadows, and we can see theres. I want you to watch and see the patterns for how they swim, think about how that would work as a dance. Adapt it to one you already know. You’re going to be guiding your own swimming shadow koi before dinner.”

Yuri gaped at Victor. “In five hours?”

Victor’s smile was pleasant and unyielding. “In however long it takes.”

* * *

As it turned out, it took exactly _six_ hours to get a decently fish-shaped shadow to move in place, swimming like one of the koi lazing in the stronger current, holding the same position against the tug of the water’s movement. By the end of it Yuri felt both glad for having bested Victor’s ludicrous challenge, and uncertain. The experience as a whole was unnerving. 

Still, he fell to eating with gusto, appreciating the simple finger-food nature of their meal. Cold cuts of meat, pickled vegetables, bread warm from the oven. All of it was easy to manipulate with one arm, his other kept close in its sling. Victor insisted on checking his bandages and having Yuri encourage the healing magic to function on 

That night, he returned to his rooms without a second thought, only realising after he’d crawled into his own bed for the night that his bed felt almost too large. He missed the warmth of Victor at his side, but the thought was one he wanted to shut down and ignore as much as he wanted to linger over it. 

The break in pattern turned into a new pattern of its own. Victor asked for Yuri to walk with him after checking his injury in the morning, before breakfast; they exercised Philua together, taking turns leading the horse over even ground. Sometimes the dark pony joined them. Other times he set off on his own unexplained jaunts, showing up again much later in the afternoon, or even the next day.

The wolves sang at night, never as close as the evening when they’d attacked, but never silent. 

Training became mental exercise after mental exercise. First in the glass floor room, then in the golden room, where Victor had Yuri chase points of light with shadow. Makkachin had joined in on that game, bounding after the moving point of shadow Yuri had to keep focused enough to retain its shadow and not be disrupted by the light coming in through the south-facing windows.

Victor would dance for Yuri, asking him to memorise the pattern of Victor’s movement, then replicate it in small, using only his fingers to trace his form. Results weren’t as successful as Yuri liked at first, but he improved, appeasing his own sense of perfectionism alongside Victor’s. It made each compliment feel genuine and earned when Victor was as ready as ever to demand Yuri try again when he wasn’t satisfied with the result.

He felt himself thriving on the challenge, focusing on it and drawing on the increasing pressure of magic all around him with less hesitance than before. It even made his mornings in the greenhouse easier when he wasn’t worried to the point of inaction over using the little magics, practicing watering with the small movements of his fingers and the mental image of his desire given sharp focus. He could brush his fingers against the petals of their blue rose, feeling the response of the magic within to his touch, and it was okay. He could breathe.

Beautiful, how that rose continued to unfurl petal after petal, alive in spite of the odds stacked against it. Alive in spite of Yuri’s anger and demands, demanding a life for a life. Finding himself opening as the rose did, still tightly gathered at the core, but reaching out. 

In the afternoons, they even read together on the big couch in the golden room, Victor enamoured of the library’s breadth of reading material, typically bringing five or more along with him to browse through according to a logic of his own. Yuri had a thicker tome on herbal medicine. Tucked within its pages he had a smaller book of dessert recipies, his search for a cake he could make for Victor’s upcoming birthday well underway. Makkachin tended to find a place between them to stretch out, accepting pets from both the men in her life with equal simple joy.

(She accepted table bribes with similar joy, though mostly from Yuri, who attempted to not look guilty every time Victor caught him at it. It was what finally prompted Victor to drag his chair right next to Yuri’s, the two of them eating side by side in the kitchen instead of on opposing counters.)

The day before Victor’s birthday, Yuri was scanning through recipes for cakes when he came across one that required a certain amount of honey be used. His tail, snug at Makkachin’s back, pulled up and free as he smiled, expression half hidden by his layered books. The happy flick of his tail landed it on top of Makkachin after, Yuri reaching out to apologetically pat her on the head when she grunted. His tail draped comfortably over her side, passing right out of his awareness as he read over the ingredient list. _Perfect_. He had everything he needed. Now, for bake time…

The feeling of a hand stroking over the fur of his tail short circuited his brain, Yuri going wide eyed and lowering his book toward his chest. Victor was still engrossed in his reading, the absent petting motions of his hand having been running over Makkachin’s haunches. Now he was catching the end of Yuri’s tail, stroking down and ruffling fur with his fingernails.

Yuri made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, Victor’s hand going still on the white tip of Yuri’s tail as he looked up. “Hm?”

Yuri promptly jerked his tail away, lifting his book to hide his face again. When he lowered it again a few seconds later, he saw Victor blinking at him, holding his hand slightly raised off Makkachin.

Yuri met his gaze, Victor looking faintly sheepish. The expression struck him as so funny over an innocuous piece of absurdity, Yuri starting to laugh. His books fell back to his chest, Victor lowering his book too as the laughter spread and caught, both men reduced to tears over nothing at all.

“You’re gifted with your hands,” Yuri said once he could breathe again, books carefully collected off his chest and back in his hands.

Victor snorted, almost starting to laugh again, bending forward and shaking his head. He glanced up sideways at Yuri, winking. “So people tell me. And by people,” he admitted, tipping his head toward Makkachin and her concerned licks at Yuri’s face, “I mean Makkachin.”

It almost set them to laughing, painfully, all over again.

After saying goodnight, Yuri headed back to the kitchen, spending the majority of the evening baking with the castle attempting to help by leaving out the right measuring cups and bowls. Yuri managed to get the dough in working order, wearing a full arm tunic in the heat of the kitchen in an effort to not accidentally shed into the dough. Rolling out each of the thin layers of cake was almost fun, Yuri imagining Victor’s pleasure the next day. Baking all the extra pieces he’d cut off to make each layer perfectly round, he crushed them up and set them aside, turning to the task of whipping the cream for the frosting.

After half an hour of whipping the cream with his uninjured arm, Yuri wondered why he’d thought it was a good idea in the first place. Grim in his determination, he beat the whipped cream until it was fluffier than he was, not to mention more piqued. Or was it supposed to be peaked?

Triumphant, he added a portion of the sour cream Victor had made earlier in the week, the finely ground sugar added to Yuri’s taste. Slathering each layer with the frosting was a messier affair than he expected; wearing more on his hands than on the cake, in his opinion. By the time he was tossing the crumbled baked bits of extra layers over the cake as a whole, Yuri was running on fumes of anticipatory excitement. He tucked the cake into the cold pantry, draping a beeswax cloth carefully over it. By tomorrow, it should be ready to serve.

Tomorrow turned out to be surprising on several levels. Victor pronounced his injury as closed, healed and on the path to proper full recovery. “Might leave a scar under the fur,” he said, frowning as he examined the back of Yuri’s shoulder. Vaguely, Yuri wondered if it was a good sign he no longer cared so much if he was in fewer layers around Victor. He didn’t feel any less _Yuri_ regardless, even with Victor matter of fact brushing his fingers through the undeniable reality of his fur.

“Not like anyone will be able to tell.” 

“You never know.” Victor gave him a mysterious smile, stepping back to regard Yuri as a whole. “Ready for picking up dance practice again?”

Yuri gave him a dry look, but the excitement at being able to take strides forward again in a way he could fully lose himself in, letting the music or its memory move through him, shone in his eyes. It swept through him as surely as the magic could when its weight became too much to bear.

Victor said nothing about his birthday, not until close to the early evening. “Would you let me cook us dinner for my birthday?”

Yuri blinked, taken aback. “I guess? Doesn’t that seem backward?”

“Not for me, really.” Victor laughed, offering Yuri his arm in a gallant, unnecessary gesture. “I’ll have the pleasure of good company, and the pleasure of _feeding_ god company. It’s a win all around.” 

Yuri only hesitated for a beat of his heart before he accepted Victor’s arm with a nod, accepting his logic along with it. They kept to easy pace as they walked toward the baths, discussing the merits of songbirds for no reason Yuri could remember by the time the topic had arrived on the subject. Dinner would be after a soak for their aching muscles.

Yuri’s anticipation built throughout dinner, the meat and vegetable stew pleasantly flavoured. He was less self conscious about the chewing and slurping involved, Victor just as loud at his side. Yuri didn’t give in to the urge to clean his bowl with his tongue, but Victor did, winking at Yuri in the process.

He shook his head, offering Makkachin the bowl instead. It was an excuse to stand, tidying the kitchen and heading toward the cold storage with a smile curling at his lips. He found the cake where he’d left it, gently lifting the beeswax cloth off and setting it to the side. Yuri swept back into the kitchen, ears perked forward, catching sight of Victor setting both bowls into the sink. Makkachin wagged her tail and barked; Victor turned with the sound, smiling as he saw Yuri. Smiling wider when he saw the cake, stepping back from the counter and throwing his hands up to shoulder height, fingers splayed.

“Wow! Yuri, this looks amazing!” 

Yuri flicked an ear, feeling a passing urge to shoot Victor a cocky grin. He ended up looking more pleased than cocky, dipping his muzzle to the side to indicating Victor should take a seat. Once he had, Yuri set the platter with the cake in the center in front of him, sweeping into a theatrical bow after. When he straightened, he didn’t bother hiding his grin.

“Happy Birthday, Victor.”

Victor smiled, pressing one hand over his heart. It wasn’t entirely theatrics, but it did carry that playful edge, for all his heart gave a lurch at the words paired with the expression on Yuri’s face. “Thank you, Yuri. Really, this is lovely. I think this is the nicest cake I’ve ever had.” His voice came out lower than he expected, throat tight with emotion. This wasn’t the first cake he’d had on his birthday, and it wasn’t even a tradition of any kind. He enjoyed company and food, the real traditions for his birthdays, and maybe that was it. He’d enjoyed his day, his company, the meal he’d made, and now here he was being presented with a dessert celebrating him, like Yuri had said he’d do. Victor may have said he’d hold Yuri to it, but he hadn’t expected…

Hadn’t expected, no, but he’d hoped. Having that hope rewarded was gratifying in a way he didn’t experience often. For a brief moment, he had an overpowering desire to stand up and sweep Yuri into a hug. To press a kiss to his furry cheek and hope that could say more than he was presently managing.

He didn’t. He sat, and he smiled, and when Yuri brought over plates and served Victor first, he patted the stool to his right, holding his spoon in his left hand. 

“The honey in this came from the hives on the estate. I hope it tastes good.” Yuri wasn’t fretting much, but Victor didn’t even want it to jokingly get that far. 

“I know it does.” He turned his right hand palm up, holding it between them as a question. He looked down, inviting Yuri to do the same; wondering if Yuri understood the gesture for what it was.

“Won’t you have to try it first?” Yuri blinked at Victor’s hand, wondering why it was being held like that, almost as if he was expecting something to be set in it. Yuri glanced over at the serving of cake and the spoon in Victor’s left hand, then down to his right hand once again. Victor gave a small, inviting wave with his fingers. Yuri almost waved back.

Then he finally understood what it might mean, except how could it? His eyes widened, grin frozen on his face. His eyes flicked between Victor’s open hand and his face, one ear pointed toward Victor, the other askance to the side.

Victor gave a small nod at Yuri’s questioning glances, leaving his hand where it was. “Some things you know without needing to try, but since you’ve made such a compelling point…” He cut the spoon down through a portion of the slice he’d been given, not quite as deft at handling the utensil with his non-dominant hand. He managed to bring it up to his mouth without incident, turning the spoon upside down and pulling it back out of his closed lips with slow, deliberate care. His eyes closed, focusing on the taste of the bite of cake in his mouth. Frosting that was sweet, but not overly so; creamy, moist cake with a delightful taste of honey baked right in. Almost too rich, but not; imperfect in build, but perfect in balance.

Victor didn’t bother holding back the happy moan of pleasure at the delight to his senses, eyes fluttering open again as he licked his lips. His lips quirked up into a smile, eyes softening as he caught Yuri’s wide eyed look.

Yuri’s hand settled in his a moment later, firmly looking away. He cleared his throat before he asked, “That good?”

Victor felt a flutter in his stomach, smile gaining a stupidly giddy edge at the feeling of Yuri’s hand in his. Such a small thing, and yet. “Yeah,” he said, giving Yuri’s rough hand a squeeze. “Even better than I expected.”

They sat hand in hand eating Victor’s birthday cake in the warmth of the castle kitchen, and for all the hour it took to get through dessert, Victor was hard pressed to remember another time in his life where he’d been quite so simply _happy_.

* * *

The days after flew past, half of Victor’s training a matter of keeping calm and projecting that calm and steadiness in belief at Yuri while he started to dance, calling on the immense weight of magic once again swirling around the castle and its estate. It wasn’t as bad as the month before; Victor could feel a difference, both in the volume and the tenor of the magic waiting for its breaking point. He half expected they might have to invent one of their own, but held off on suggesting as much to Yuri as he grew increasingly more distractible and hyperfocused in turns. On the day of the new moon itself, Yuri was so keyed up he was fumbling his handling of magics he’d been managing to perform perfectly in the weeks before.

“Yuri, let’s stop there for today.” Victor held out a water glass, beckoning Yuri over to the side of the ballroom. “We should switch over to practicing up here.” He tapped on his forehead, already seeing the mutinous set to Yuri’s jaw. He wasn’t going to accept today as a rest day. Maybe it was better if Yuri ran himself hard early on, using the afternoon to recuperate, but Victor didn’t think Yuri would be willing to grant himself the rest time he’d desperately need if he kept on as he was doing now.

So he redirected it toward another magically tiring activity, but not physically exhausting in the same way as their dancing. 

“Shadow koi?”

Victor nodded. “You’ve been wanting to try and handle three moving independently, haven’t you? Let’s see what you can do.”

As it turned out, Yuri could manage three shadow koi all swimming in their own patterns. Victor was impressed, even telling him so, but it barely registered for Yuri. He had trouble eating, spent the afternoon stalking through the castle looking like he expected to be hunted, like in the frescos in the formal dining room.

He consented to soaking in the hot springs, but the whole time he was in the bath he kept twitching and looking back toward the doors instead of out at the winterscape shown through the windows. By evening Yuri begged off entirely, meeting Victor’s gaze and promising he would be fine. 

Victor didn’t think Yuri believed that, but he smiled, nodding his head, and agreed. It helped, or he liked to think it helped. Yuri gave him a genuine smile and adjusted the glasses clipped on as they always were when he wasn’t dancing or bathing. “See you in the morning, Victor.”

“Goodnight, Yuri. Call for me if you need anything.”

“Mm.” Yuri didn’t say he would. He didn’t want to lie, and he wasn’t sure that the troubles he dealt with, the way the magic consumed him, overwhelmed him, were anything Victor could help with. So he said nothing at all.

Victor found himself sitting on his bed, Makkachin in his lap, staring determinedly at his door. He had a book at his side, an enjoyable romance concerning two women adventuring through the Fjords, but he couldn’t make himself focus on the words. He could have gone downstairs and listened to music, but the sense of anticipation, as if the magic once more had a mind of its own and was watching, waiting for its opportunity, left him sitting on edge. Yuri had weathered this for years. It still boggled Victor when he thought about that.

When the magic started to move, shifting like water at the gates of a dam, Victor went still. He held his breath, straining with every sense he had.

When the magic _moved_ , the silence shattered, a booming thunder echoing through the castle like it had the month prior. Only this time, as he heard a second, smaller crash, Victor moved off the bed and ran for his door. 

He could feel the magic spiraling, focusing in on one point and moving toward it faster and faster, the pressure intense enough he felt like he needed to clear his ears, like electricity was dancing across his skin. It was all an illusion, a way for his mind to interpret the immensity of what he was feeling, and even Makkachin was suffering from the side effects.

He was on the short stairs to Yuri’s suite of rooms when the pressure cracked with a sound louder than lightning. It left Victor’s ears ringing, the magic slowing down and settling like a watchful predator, waiting for whatever had taken hours to occur the last time.

“Castle, keep her safe.” Victor spoke too loudly, telling Makkachin to stay as he bounded up the stairs, reaching out to open Yuri’s door. Unlike last month, he wasn’t content to let Yuri handle this on his own. It wasn’t a matter of Yuri needing him or not. It was a matter of Victor wanting to _be_ there for him.

Even if Yuri implied by omission he didn’t want Victor to be there at all.

“Yuri?” Victor slipped into his front room, closing the door behind him. He didn’t see him in the area, but that didn’t mean much. The rooms were connected one to the next, and it made sense that Yuri hadn’t been able to sleep. Victor walked carefully toward the middle of the room, stopping at the foot of Yuri’s bed to look around, able to see around the far side of Yuri’s bed just in case he’d tucked himself down there. “Yuri? Where are you?”

The ringing in his ears distorted what he was hearing, but he had to believe he’d be able to hear Yuri calling out to him. That he wasn’t concerned him on several levels, leading Victor to start toward the attached rooms. They were all dark, the witchlights unactivated anywhere but close to Yuri’s bedside; still, there was light enough to see movement against the deeper dark.

“Yuri, please talk to me. If you can hear me, say something, anything.”

He registered the growling a moment later, that same defensive sound from when Yuri had been on the offensive during the wolf attack weeks prior. With a sinking heart, Victor knew that what they’d been working on together hadn’t been able to spare Yuri from that response; where it came from, or if it was an extension of the castle’s connection to Yuri himself or something else entirely, Victor didn’t know.

He held his hands out to the dark, watching shadows move within shadows. The growling didn’t stop.

“I’m sorry, Yuri. Will you please come out? We’ll keep working on this together, I promise. I won’t leave you to handle this alone anymore.” He felt a small measure of relief as Yuri stepped forward, shadow pooling out in front of him, brushing against Victor. 

Except it wasn’t Yuri who stepped out of the darkness of the unlit room. The massive, horse-sized animal that stalked forward on four strong legs had its ears pointed forward, head carried low, still growling. Triangular ears and a narrow muzzle put Victor in mind of a fox, but its chest was too broad, size too utterly impossible.

Victor started backing away on instinct, hands still held out for the man he now desperately hoped was okay. “Yuri,” he said, conversational and light in spite of the sick worry coursing through his stomach, using his tone to try and encourage the animal to calm down, not escalate. “If you can hear me, please let me know you’re okay.”

Yuri never got the chance. Before there was any time for an answer, the animal surged forward with bared teeth and a growl that turned into a shrieking scream as it leapt for Victor’s throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So about that cliffhanger... I'm hoping to get the next chapter out in the next week and a half or so, but in the meantime, please enjoy this birthday update (mine in truth, and not intentionally, Victor's in-story) for what it's worth. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	9. in which victor tries his best, and yuri tries freezing to death before talking about the past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri shivered, a violent start as he whimpered, face still pressed against the side of Victor’s neck. “Cold,” he said, but it was barely a word, broken up by chattering teeth and a shivering that only grew more violent. Victor felt his elation fade, replaced quickly by concern as his own chill registered. He moved to sit them both up, shedding snow as they went, trying to brush it off Yuri with numb fingers.
> 
> “You’ve gone white,” he joked, but as the snow refused to let go of Yuri’s fur, Victor threw a worried look at his face. He went still in surprised as he took in what he was seeing. Where Yuri’s muzzle normally jutted forth there was now a much shorter nose with its tip turned up just so; right below it lay blue-tinged lips covering blunt, practical teeth. Strong eyebrows, _definitive_ eyebrows, drew in toward each other as he shivered with the cold.
> 
> Eyes, a warm, deep brown, slit open, attempting to focus on Victor’s face. “ _So cold_ ,” he said again, teeth chattering, the words difficult to understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd for the time being; please enjoy! Even if this is almost entirely a chapter of... well. Basically one scene.

The creature slammed into Victor hard, sending them both stumbling backward with enough force that when Victor’s knees hit the foot of Yuri’s bed, he was thrown down, paws with blunt nails driving his shoulders down into the mattress. Saliva flecked his face and throat, bared teeth snapping at the air in front of his face. Victor’s hands shoved against the underside of the animal’s jaws, forcing its head up and back barely enough to win himself room to breathe.

The shriek had subsided back into growling, loud and strong enough that Victor felt it vibrating through his bones. He tried to bring a knee up to drive into the animal’s stomach, but their limbs were entangled, the weight of the massive creature keeping Victor pinned. He felt overwhelmed, not just by the size of his assailant, but at the weight of magic behind it as well, tense and tangled and _hungry._ Shadows bled over the edge of his vision, clinging to the creature, curling around Victor’s legs with a tangible presence, holding him down.

Hot breath and a snap of teeth by his cheek had Victor tucking his chin in as he _pushed_ the head away, gritting his teeth and calling out. “Yuri!” 

There was a small hiccup in the growling, the shift of a paw on Victor’s shoulder. He felt the ripple through the magic, a disruption in focus as his eyes widened, really looking at the animal trying to attack. Black fur ticked to silver around its eyes, the illusion of silver rounded dots for eyebrows, the almost mask-like pattern that was so familiar on a different face, framed by long hair and a smaller muzzle. With warm brown eyes, not the almost amber ones pinning him down now, but unmistakable nonetheless.

“Yuri?”

He sounded disbelieving, but his voice was softer, asking instead of calling out. One massive ear twitched, lips relaxing in a confusion that passed as quickly as it came on. The weight of the magic shivered, Victor wishing he had a fraction of Georgi’s ability to parse emotion; he was certain if he did, he’d be able to figure out _something_ he simply couldn’t feel on his own.

_Hungry_ , he’d thought, while teeth snapped at his face and claws had dug into the skin of his shoulders, through his shirt. _Desperate_ is what he thought after, as he made himself stop struggling against the massive fox. Stroking trembling fingers through the fur on either side of the fox’s face, he hoped he was right.

Especially as those wicked teeth dipped down, massive head turning, to press against either side of Victor’s neck. He felt the warmth of every exhalation, near burning; the cooling warmth of saliva as it dripped onto his skin. Each pressure point where a tooth was in contact with his neck held him still, but the pressure didn’t increase; the creature he was increasingly sure was Yuri, somehow, held as still as Victor, still growling.

His heart hammered in his chest. Victor swallowed, then smiled, keeping his lips closed. One great amber eye focused on him, jaws closing a fraction more in warning. Victor kept himself from flinching. Instead, he worked his fingers in small, soothing motions, stroking through fur.

“Yuri,” he said, keeping his voice low, “Is it the magic? Is this what happens when we reach that breaking point? It’s still waiting. I can feel it too, pressing down.” More than that. As he extended his magical sense, focusing on those energies instead of every other sense screaming out his danger, he made himself relax. The growling slowly abated, coming in fits and spurts as the creature seemed to remember it’d been growling in the first place.

Victor didn’t stop the movement of his fingers through its fur. Underneath, he could feel the magic at work, tangled, choking. There was a framework for what he thought might have been a transformation working, steeped in what he assumed had to be shadow magic. It was like a mirror of his own magic in light, but whatever it had been once, now it was more raw power looped back on itself, knotted and finding no clean way to flow. Sheer power with no guided purpose. Surely maddening, definitely overwhelming. Victor felt his heart rate elevating again in sympathetic response, but he made himself breathe slow and steady. In, out. Fingers stroking, then slowly starting to move in a simple pattern.

Could he encourage the magic to flow clean? To unwind itself from knots and tangles, to redirect? He started to feed in some of his own magic, but he felt the fox stiffen, heard the whine before the growling renewed. Yuri, this had to be Yuri, was fighting the movement. Drawing the knots tighter instead of letting them go.

It wouldn’t do, but it wasn’t something Victor could overpower, not while being safe. He didn’t know what awarenes Yuri had like this, but he was beginning to suspect that the tangle and pressure he felt in Yuri’s altered form had everything to do with how the power that was dammed up on the estate eventually found its way free.

Was it Yuri? Was Yuri the key?

Perhaps, perhaps not. Victor had a bigger problem currently weighing him down.

“Yuri, it’s okay to be scared. When magic’s this overwhelming, there’s no witch who wouldn’t hesitate to handle it. Not alone.” His fingers started tracing a more familiar pattern, a simplified version of a dance he and Yuri had practiced over the last few weeks. Simple, because for two water witches, generating snowflakes in an already cold and water-rich environment was straightforward. “You’re not alone anymore. I’m here with you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Part of him noted wryly he wasn’t going anywhere because he was also literally pinned and held down with shadow magic, but the words seemed to mean something to Yuri, too, because his fits of growls had stilled. He whined, opening his jaws without moving his head away.

Victor continued his pattern traced into the fur of his cheeks, his neck, the underside of his jawbone. “There, can you feel this?” He tugged on the magic, the most gentle brush, prompting it into following along with the pattern he held in his head. “I need you to work with me, Yuri. I can’t do this alone either. Remember how we danced when we were calling the snow? The darting runs, the deliberate, light-footed jumps? I said they were light as a fox’s tread in the henhouse.” His fingers traced those darting runs and almost dainty sequence of jumping steps, ending in a swirl and pause of his fingers, standing in for an arabesque they’d held, complementary to each other. “It took you three hours to land them right consistently, but you’ve never missed a step since.”

The whining subsided, Yuri pulling his head back, still keeping Victor pinned. He looked down the length of his massive muzzle, slowly closing his mouth. Amber eyes seemed to darken, but his ears were focused forward on Victor, listening. He didn’t shake his head or try to dislodge Victor’s hands. He held still, watching, and so Victor did what he could.

He continued to speak, continued to card his fingers through fur as if this were all normal, all planned. Soothing, though Victor wasn’t sure he really understood how to soothe; his voice low, firm, asking. 

“Remember how we moved. You can do that, Yuri, you’ve done it before. Close your eyes and focus on remembering. How did the magic respond when you called on it? When we both called on it? Guide the magic with me again. Open yourself up to it. Trust me. We’re a conduit. We show the magic what we want it to be, where we want it to go. We don’t get swept away with it.”

The fox closed his eyes, lowering his massive head to bury it against the side of Victor’s head and neck. All the fur tickled, but it was a minor concern. The magic Victor felt moving through Yuri which had fought him earlier was listening now. Responding, following along with the movement of his fingers.

“It’s another dance, Yuri. Hold the thought of it in your mind and move. You’re so beautiful when you dance, do you know that? When you move the magic with you instead of fight it.”

He breathed out in a heavy sigh, hot against the side of Victor’s neck, disturbing his hair. Yuri lowered himself down, Victor wheezing as his weight settled fully on his chest. It was going to make speaking difficult, enough so that he stopped trying. He could feel Yuri’s touch on the magic mimicking his own, and so he closed his own eyes, gave himself over to the sense of the magic pressing in on them. Magic from the waiting cloud that hung over the castle; magic from the tangled knots that clung on to Yuri, as much a part of his shadows and fur and bones as his own flesh was.

Victor hummed. Remembering the last song they’d danced snowflakes into existence with, feeling Yuri’s control relax into Victor’s lead as he went. What started as a trickle of magic soon turned into a torrent, snowflakes crystalising into existence all around them, generating their own wind as the warmer air of the room was confronted with the cold of the snow. The first flurry of flakes fell over them both, melting against warm fur, warmed stone, warm cloth coverings, but the heat was being leached from the air as more and more of the magic within Yuri untangled, flowing through them both, flowing outward.

When the windows cracked and broke, Victor jerked up against Yuri’s mass, Yuri barely responding. Victor stopped humming, opening his eyes to focus on the black fur to the side of his head, cold hands tracing the same pattern again and again. He could barely feel his hands as it was, the cold growing more intense as the magic pulled in snow and ice and water from outside to convert into the fat, new flakes of snow that flurried all around them.

Yuri moaned, a low, painful sound so close to crying that Victor felt his concern like a knife through his core. He couldn’t lose control of the magic he was helping guide, especially not as he felt Yuri turn inward, focusing on the changing pattern of the magic within. _Transformation_ , Victor reminded himself, but of what? The Yuri he knew into this massive animal? Was this what happened to Yuri every month for the past five years?

He couldn’t follow those thoughts, the looming presence of the magic waiting for some signal Victor was ignorant to turning into a crashing wave of intent as the magic in Yuri drained, leaving him temporarily hollowed. The magic found him then, the incredible weight of it tipping over the edge of what held it at bay to pour down through and over and around Yuri and Victor, an unseen force generating an almost physical wind.

Yuri’s weight against Victor’s chest shifted, lessening, as if he was contracting in on himself as fur slid out from under Victor’s numb hands. The roar of magic tearing past, following Victor’s desperate guidance toward the network of magic lines coursing through and away from the estate, left him breathless. Trying to hold on to his sense of self and delving for his own magic, pulling on light even as he felt the flow tearing away the vestiges of Yuri’s shadows. Still, even as he held on to Yuri, he could feel Yuri’s core center hold steady. He had pulled into himself enough to hold together, even in the middle of a whirlwind of magic.

_So strong_ , Victor thought, slamming his eyes shut, _So incredibly strong._

He didn’t know how long it lasted, the two of them trembling and holding on to each other in the coursing flow of magic all around them. The vestiges of magic clinging to Yuri were pulled away in the inexorable flow, sloughing off like skin from a healing sunburn. What was left behind was vibrant, aching, bare.

Victor forced his eyes open, a light frosting of snowflakes across his lashes almost succeeding in keeping his eyes closed. He used a focused nudge of his own magic to melt the ice into misleading tears that trickled down the corners of his eyes, the pounding headache and hollowness that followed a warning against any more of the same. He wasn’t entirely sure what the two of them had done, other than guide the mess of magic that had coiled around Yuri away, then funneled the whole of the buildup of magic over the estate through themselves. It was madness to have tried, madness that they’d survived. Victor wanted to laugh, finding himself breaking into a smile as he looked to Yuri, his weight still resting against him.

The whole of the room caught and reflected the light coming down from the single witchlight hanging in the center of the room. Fresh snow coated the room in powder at least hip deep; new icicles had formed on the ceiling and the corner of every available wall and surface. Even the bed was underneath at least fifteen centimetres of the same. The snow that would have been on Victor was piled on top of Yuri instead. A Yuri who no longer crushed Victor underneath his weight, just rested on him, of an equal size.

Yuri shivered, a violent start as he whimpered, face still pressed against the side of Victor’s neck. “Cold,” he said, but it was barely a word, broken up by chattering teeth and a shivering that only grew more violent. Victor felt his elation fade, replaced quickly by concern as his own chill registered. He moved to sit them both up, shedding snow as they went, trying to brush it off Yuri with numb fingers.

“You’ve gone white,” he joked, but as the snow refused to let go of Yuri’s fur, Victor threw a worried look at his face. He went still in surprised as he took in what he was seeing. Where Yuri’s muzzle normally jutted forth there was now a much shorter nose with its tip turned up just so; right below it lay blue-tinged lips covering blunt, practical teeth. Strong eyebrows, _definitive_ eyebrows, drew in toward each other as he shivered with the cold.

Eyes, a warm, deep brown, slit open, attempting to focus on Victor’s face. “ _So cold_ ,” he said again, teeth chattering, the words difficult to understand.

Victor shoved his shock to the side, using the hook of his legs over the edge of the bed to pull him forward, shifting Yuri in his lap. Yuri, looking as human as he always was in every way that mattered; Yuri, who was freezing, so much worse than anything a largely clothed Victor was enduring.

He lifted him in his arms and waded through the snow, feeling it compact underfoot, stealing the rest of the heat from his exposed skin at his feet, at his ankles, creeping higher. “Castle!” he called out, approaching the doors. The opened, spilling snow out onto the warmer stone floor outside, starling Makkachin who huddled by the wall, tail between her legs. “I need towels, blankets, in my room, _now_.” Yuri couldn’t even manage to hold on to Victor, his arms tucked tight across his chest, holding himself together as he shivered so hard Victor was afraid of dropping him as he walked on.

Makkachin whined, keeping pace at Victor’s side. He wished he had any good comfort to spare her, but he had to try and keep Yuri focused, knowing he was too cold, that the blue of his lips was not natural, not normal. Blue tinged skin and a desperately racing heart if the leaping at his throat meant anything. When people got too cold, were too exposed to it for too long, they didn’t all survive. Sometimes people simply died and there was nothing to do for it.

“Yuri, I need you to stay with me. Okay? Stay awake. You owe me so many explanations,” he said, mock chiding, trying and failing to hide the concern in his features. “Is it fair, leaving your teacher this in the dark?”

Yuri couldn’t see it anyway. He breathed erratically, trying to swallow. “Sorry,” he got out between shivers and clenched teeth, attempting to lock his jaw firmly enough to prevent the chattering. 

“Lemon tea,” Victor called out to the castle, “Or broth, please! Whatever we have, just not alcohol.”

Yuri wasn’t sure what Victor was on about, or why he sounded both calm and demanding and a little like he was a step away from pleading, his thoughts too muzzy to track. He vaguely knew he wasn’t in fur, but even that he wasn’t sure of, caught between the freezing ache that burned through him and the pleasant hollowness where the knot of magic usually thrummed underneath his skin. He couldn’t remember any time where it’d been so exhausted. Normally when he woke from the blackness that overtook him when the magic first peaked, he felt drained and the knot tightened, not undone.

He didn’t know what to think of that. Victor jolted him unintentionally, stumbling on an uneven stone and catching his balance in the next motion. Yuri’s outcry in pain was sharp enough to make him focus, closing his eyes and focusing inward. He barely had enough magic left to respond to the touch he felt from the castle; what little he did was a gentle nudge back to the castle’s insistent brush.

He didn’t recognise the room they were in, fire blazing in the hearth, bed made and Victor walking right past it to the thick rug on the floor. Blankets and towels were stacked haphazardly there, as if dropped from a distance, half unfolding themselves in the landing. 

Victor kicked at a towel, trying to spread it out over the rug. Yuri winced, a half-strangled protest caught in his throat while Victor mumbled apologies, asking him to stay awake, stay with him. He had to fight off unconsciousness while listening to the lilt of Victor’s voice, catching half the words, relying on the sounds as a focal point.

On Victor’s part, his mouth was on automatic. He was talking to Yuri like he rambled to Makkachin sometimes, or the way he’d talked to his troupemates when he’d been the one having to nurse them through an illness. He wasn’t the best nurse, and by and large, he didn’t lend himself well to the practice. His attention would wander, but he cared enough about his working family that he’d rein in his own errant impulses and stay by their sides, helping get broth and water down, exchanging cool and warm rags for whatever helped when laid over their foreheads, keeping them firmly tucked in even when they’d thrash and throw off blankets. 

Yakov was a better nurse, in spite of his grumblings. Better even than Georgi, as he was less likely to burst into sympathetic tears when he grew tired. Victor could remember when he was younger and in the grips of a fever that refused to let go, how the only relief had been in the patient, calming strokes of a damp cloth over skin, and Yakov’s steadying, rolling chatter as he talked about anything and nothing at all.

He pulled on those memories of Yakov as he settled Yuri on the towel, reaching back for the lopsided pile of them to use another to dry his hair with rough, short motions. He didn’t want to drip onto Yuri while he was drying him off, wanting to get him warm, wanting to keep him from further chill. Quick and efficient, he patted Yuri dry, torso first, arms and legs, helping Yuri roll over to dry off his back. It was still odd to see him without all the rest of what Victor associated with the other man: no tail seated at the small of his back, no overlarge, expressive ears poking through the mass of his long hair. The same long hair, however, which Victor dried as much as he could, wrapping in a new towel when he couldn’t expunge all the wet, cursing himself at having lacked foresight to hold enough magic in reserve that he might have been able to direct the water away.

Yuri hadn’t stopped shivering. A click and clatter of mugs had Victor glancing up, noting the serving tray and the _samovar_ there on the floor a third of a meter away from the both of them. “Thank you,” he said, already sitting back and stripping off his shirt, then his pants, then everything else. He used one of the last towels to make sure he was dry, checking the warmth of his torso with hands that had regained heat while he’d been working to dry Yuri, nodding to himself. He was warm. He hadn’t been cooled down as dramatically as Yuri, no small part likely owing to the fact he’d been largely clothed. Yuri in fur wouldn’t have had to worry, but without? With bare skin?

Victor felt himself frown as he kept talking to Yuri, telling him what he was doing as he laid out the first comforter, then the second. He was kneeling down to pick Yuri up once more and carefully settle him onto the blankets, wanting to insulate him even further from the stone floor than the thick carpet alone managed. Half folding the doubled blankets over Yuri’s shivering form, Victor settled another blanket draping over the top, then gave up and pulled the full pile close to where he could reach. Yuri was closest to the fire, the blanket opening up pointing away from it, but only for Victor’s sake. Once he had everything in reach, he slipped under the blankets, cozying up against Yuri.

“Hey, come here, please,” he said, coaxing Yuri into rolling on his side, pulling him flush against Victor’s chest. Yuri was shockingly cold like this, startling a gasp out of Victor, gooseflesh breaking out across his body as he barely kept himself from flinching away. Instead, he nestled closer, pulling the blankets over them both, sealing the heat in from his body and trapping the incoming warmth of the fire. “Let’s warm you up, Yuri. No falling asleep on me.” He pulled another blanket down to nestle above their heads, until only Yuri’s face and Victor’s neck were really exposed to the open air.

Makkachin approached, whining again and curling up at Victor’s back. She was a gentle weight holding down that side of the blanket, reassuring and familiar. “Good girl,” Victor said, holding Yuri as he was wracked by waves of shivering he couldn’t control.

Victor talked as his throat dried, as the heat of the room rose and penetrated through the blankets. He told Yuri about different stories with the troupe, how the magical cataclysm five years ago had cut them off from the pass through to the far side of the continent along with countless others. How his youngest troupemate had family there still, a grandfather; about how they were working to get the passports to get home.

Yuri’s bouts of shivering were slow to calm down, seconds between fits stretching into half minutes, stretching into minutes as his core warmed. He kept leaching heat from Victor, but not so quickly, nor so shockingly, as at first. Feeling returned to him in painful fits and bursts, his body aching as if he’d run for kilometers without pause. Like he’d danced himself to bleeding feet and broken bones, trying to control a magic larger than himself.

In a way, he supposed that’s exactly what he had done, but he still found it difficult to summon the energy to pull his face away from where it nestled by Victor’s neck, nose tingling and biting as it was warming, cheeks, eventually even his ears starting to feel the burning, painful touch of warmth again. What he wanted to ask had to do with Victor leaving, once Feltsman’s Troupe had the funds to go. What came out instead was a confession of his own, chattering and stuttered.

“I have family beyond the pass, too.”

He hadn’t talked about home out loud for years. He could barely remember the look of his parents or his elder sister, couldn’t for the life of him remember the way they sounded. Yet a scent, sometimes, would bring them clearly to mind. There were meals he made that pulled him into nostalgia so encompassing, he was almost rendered immobile, overwhelmed by emotion.

Victor hummed an acknowledgement, breathing steady, pressed chest to chest against Yuri.

“Tell me about them?”

Yuri slit his eyes open, seeing little past the strands of Victor’s hair, the curve of his neck. He should feel self-conscious, he supposed. Instead, he felt cold; he was still not the right kind of _warm_.

“I don’t know what to say.” His sister, his father, his mother. Five years had passed. What had those years been like for them? Was he five years dead, or five years missing? Did he want to know? “There’s my sister, Mari. She helps out at the inn. None of them are witches, they never felt the magic the way…”

As he trailed off, Victor shifted, tucking Yuri closer against him, stretching out a leg he folded over the top of Yuri’s. Terribly intimate, in most circumstances. Here, Yuri was simply thankful for the additional warmth, tucking a knee between Victor’s and trying not to feel guilty at the slow blossom of body heat where skin touched skin. The burning ache as warmth returned was painful, but he had to be glad for it at all. “The way we do,” Victor finished, humming again afterward. He had his own swirling thoughts to pull through, the majority dealing with his concern for the man he was trying to fully warm. Victor pulled his head back, getting a good look at Yuri’s face. He brought a hand up to cup Yuri’s chin, holding him steady as he examined him.

His lips didn’t have the same obvious blue tinge as before, but they weren’t back to what he guessed would be normal. He lifted his head to regard the _samovar_ and the mugs on its tray while Yuri swallowed, eyes darting away, Victor’s hand lifting from his chin to rest against his shoulder.

“I always felt the closest thing to an explanation I could give to someone who doesn’t have magic is to bring some of it alive where they can see. Here, sit up? Let’s get something warm in you.” Victor loosened their nest of blankets, Makkachin grunting and standing as she was dislodged. She came around to sniff them both over, cold nose prompting Yuri into yelping as it found the bare skin of his shoulder. He shivered, pushing himself up and collapsing as his arms gave out under him; Victor barely managed to catch him before he face-planted back into the blankets.

He tried to push Victor off, frustrated at his own weakness, unaware of how the signs of his frustration made Victor glad when Yuri’d been so incapable of emoting much of anything earlier. Victor didn’t allow himself to be pushed back, but gave Yuri time to decide if it was the lesser of two evils to accept his help; another shiver wracked through him, and he allowed Victor to pull him up, Yuri arranging his legs accordingly with painfully slow movements. Victor kept the blankets tucked around him, settling Yuri against his chest with his legs framing his hips, letting the other man settle himself to some sense of comfort. It wasn’t easy; he was still shivering, flopping back against Victor with a disgruntled sigh. 

Yuri ignored the part of him almost soothed by the feeling of arms steadying him, the warm expanse of the chest at his back and the comically arranged blankets keeping him from exposure to the air that lay beyond leaving him feeling more cared for than what he’d have expected. He didn’t feel suffocated, except when the blanket draped over their heads fell too far forward, Victor laughing soft by his ear as they both wiggled hands free to shove it back up, an unlikely hood trapping in the heat of their heads.

The _samovar_ and tray had obligingly moved closer in the interim of their rearranging. It was the closest to seeing the castle move things on its own he’d come, next to having towels dropped down on his head from thin air. “Thank you,” he said, snaking an arm out of their rearranged blankets to nudge a cup under the spout. 

“Huh?” Yuri turned his face, cheek brushing against the side of Victor’s face. He was too tired to do more than blink, watching Victor slip a slice of lemon into the cup.

“The castle,” Victor said by means of explanation. “Make room under the top blanket?”

Yuri looked down at the mess of blankets hiding his hands, wondering how in the world that was going to work. He moved to comply anyway, tamping down on blankets until he managed to wiggle his hands free. Victor waited until he’d made a pocket between the top blanket and the one beneath, lifting the cup and bringing it up into their nest of blankets. He settled it on the blankets themselves, leaving his hand in place until Yuri’s unsteady ones settled around the cup on his own.

It was frustrating, between the exhaustion and the weakness and the rapidly waning time of his humanity. He didn’t know how long he’d been like this, or when in the mess of events it’d happened. Yuri could rarely remember much of the blank parts of his memory on new moon nights, once the magic hit its breaking point.

He was scared, he realised. Scared that Victor knew something Yuri didn’t want to hear. His fingers trembled on either side of his cup, but he swallowed, closing his eyes. Being afraid was never going to be enough.

“Thank you,” he said, taking his own turn with gratitude before he made himself ask what he didn’t want to know, but needed to know regardless. “Victor, what happened?”

Victor paused, brow furrowing as he turned his head slightly toward Yuri. “That’s what I wanted to ask you. I remember the magic crashing like lightning last month, but I had no idea… Yuri, what changed things to leave you like this?” He carefully wrapped his arms around Yuri’s chest, keeping the blankets snug against him. “Exiled in a castle, changing form, being used to filter all that magic?”

“Is that what it is?” Yuri shivered, less out of muscle responding to cold and fatigue than in response to Victor’s phrasing. “I’m not… exiled, exactly. But with a face like mine, where can I _go_? People don’t accept monsters as next-door neighbours. I _look_ cursed. Even if I wasn’t some kind of beast, who wouldn’t be afraid that the curse would rub off?”

Victor hooked his chin over Yuri’s shoulder, hunching forward a degree that Yuri could feel against his back. “Yuri.” 

He turned his face, catching sight of Victor’s face there at his shoulder. He sounded serious, surprisingly so. Yuri found himself pressing his tingling fingers hard against the cup of tea in his lap, uncertain. “Yes?”

Victor was frowning, not bothering to disguise the expression. “You’re not a monster. You’re not a beast. Everything you look like, if it’s this, if it’s in full fur with those ridiculous oversized ears, it’s an appearance. It doesn’t change who you _are_.”

It wouldn’t change that others would judge, would shy away, would carry their own fears and concerns either. Victor didn’t try to argue against that; it would be arguing against the breadth and depth of human experience, of human nature. True monsters, real ones, didn’t have to look like monsters. They simply had to have the capacity within themselves. Yuri lacked anything of the kind.

Victor tightened his arms around him, Yuri looking away and staring down at the blankets. Yuri’s chest hurt. Not because of Victor’s grip, though that wasn’t helping, but because of some emotion tied to the lump in his throat and the prickling of tears at the corners of his eyes. Even if what Victor said was true, and he knew, logically, Victor wasn’t exactly wrong, where would he go? Home? He didn’t know if he could handle his family looking on him with pity, let alone disgust, or worse, fear.

So he focused on a simpler reality, forcing out a question with a tightness in his voice making him sound small, like he felt right then. “You think my ears are ridiculously oversized?”

“Mmhm.” Victor’s affirmation rumbled through his chest, warm at Yuri’s back. “The urge to touch them is incredible. You should compliment me on my restraint.”

Yuri snorted instead, unable to blush, but having the idea that he would if he were warm enough. As it was, he carefully lifted his cup of lemon water, breathing in the steam and then slipping at it from within their cocoon of blankets. Victor held obligingly still behind him. “Ridiculous.”

“Yes,” Victor agreed, smile in his voice. “I said they were, didn’t I?”

They fell into a moment of companionable silence as Yuri chose to forgo answering in favour of slow sips of his warm beverage. He could feel it travel down his throat to his stomach, a scant glow of heat he embraced. No, that he welcomed. If anyone was embracing anything, it was Victor. Yuri didn’t want to think about it too hard, now that he _could_ think. Especially when there were words he needed to say, explanations he wanted to try and articulate, that drove back the little frisson of awareness that otherwise would have had him stumbling.

“I was traveling with my mentor Celestino and Phichit five years ago, when this all happened. Maybe it’s closer to six, now. I’ve lost track of time,” he admitted, voice staying low. Victor had to concentrate in order to properly hear what he said. “Phichit was about sixteen then. We’d both been learning dance magic from Celestino for three years or so? Phichit had a strong affiliation for fire. Celestino was an earth witch, but he’d worked with people from all elements, even the more…” Yuri struggled to find a word to describe the magics that didn’t follow the simplified system of elements recognised between different nations. “Difficult magics? No, that’s not what I mean. The lesser known ones.”

“Like shadow, or light. Or empathy,” Victor said, his own voice soft, taking cues from Yuri. He was rewarded with a shift of the hair to the side of his face as Yuri nodded. Victor blinked at the ticklish feeling.

“Yeah. He wasn’t the strongest witch on his own, but he was a good mentor. He had connections throughout the whole area, it felt like. He’d ridden circuit when he was younger, back when they were still competing at the fairs and solstices. I think that’s a lot of why he was so comfortable taking two witches along with him on the road. He’d done it before.”

“You weren’t officially part of a troupe?”

Yuri made a small noise of negation, swallowing another sip of lemon water. “No. We’d perform, but usually on our own. Phichit or me, that is. Celestino didn’t perform. He handled arrangements with where we stayed, what work we picked up, but most of what we did was practical, less for entertainment. I resented it then.” He paused, studying his cup. “It was _frustrating_. I _loved_ dancing. I loved the magic. I wanted to share that with people, but the small magics, they mostly touched people here.” He wiggled one hand free, tapping it against his temple. He realised Victor couldn’t see, moving his hand further to tap two fingers against what ended up being Victor’s nose. Almost his nostril, if Victor hadn’t dipped his head down right before Yuri’s fingers made contact.

Victor snorted, lips quirking up into a smile as he cuddled closer. He could better see Yuri’s face like this, looking critically at the colour that was so slowly returning. “In the nose?”

“No,” Yuri said, sounding somewhere between amused and grumpy. “In the head. Not in the heart. I wanted to dance in a way that captured hearts, or something like that. I didn’t get a chance to really try until we made it to one of the autumn equinox festivals in the city.”

Victor made a noise of acknowledgement. He knew what Yuri meant, having attended many of the same over the course of his time with the Feltsman Troupe. Solstices and equinoxes were magically powerful times, and in the last handful of years, dangerous if not handled well. Before the worries with the magic fluctuations, they’d also been the largest gatherings of dancing witches, and subsequently times of a multitude of performances. Running anywhere between three days to a week depending on the area, those festivals were extravagant displays of magic for the sheer sake and joy of it; proper spells and charms could be worked and were sold in plentitude, but the heart of the celebrations was the magic.

Performances were kept separate these days, the former gatherings discourage due to the unpredictability of the magic response. It was part of what made the back-up of magic over the castle unique as well as dangerous; except for whatever reason it occurred in the first place, it also resolved itself through Yuri once a month.

Which was too regular, but Victor was getting distracted, had trouble following that thought. “The city near here?”

Yuri hummed noncommittally. In truth, Yuri couldn’t remember. Cities had their own character, but his memory of the festival and what came after was fuzzy at best. The parts that were clear were uncomfortably so. “Maybe. Maybe not.” He paused to take another sip of the lemon water. “Anyway, it was a good five days of celebrations. We were exhausted by the end, but back then, I don’t think I’d ever felt so alive. Leading up to any performance was… challenging, and not every dance went as I wanted, but… it made me want to do better. Want to learn _more_.”

“That changed not long after?” Victor turned his head to glance down at the cup cradled in Yuri’s hands. He should refill it soon.

For his part, Yuri was quiet. He tucked the cup of lemon water close to his chin, staring down the length of his nose into its depths. “It did.” The urge to brush past why, to not bring up what he’d mentioned before about turning down a dance, about not fully understanding what was going on and ending up punished for it. These days he had a better idea, but he shied away from acknowledging the bald truth. Why?

There was no good reason. Yuri breathed in, breathed out. “Celestino was training me with both water and shadow magic, but we were always careful. Shadow magic could feel so… seductive. It isn’t, not really, but it felt that way. Using shadow magic felt right, but we agreed it wasn’t a good idea to use my more unpredictable magic during such a charged event.” He still thought it was a good idea. Wondered what, back then, had gone wrong.

Victor simply waited, a quiet audience at Yuri’s back. When Yuri lifted his eyes to look toward the fire burning in the hearth, he was glad for the warm blur of colour it made, the way the shadows and light both danced in front of its heat. “I drank more than I should have. I’d messed up the performance I’d done on the main stage that night, and I wanted to forget about it, or something stupid like that. How could I have been so _stupid?!_ ”

Victor refrained from thinking about Yuri’s behaviour the last time he’d had more than his fair share of alcohol at the dinner table just with him. There was a certain freedom from inhibitions and second guessing that allowed Yuri to live in the moment without the regrets or fears that might plague him otherwise. Or that was Victor’s guess, educated as he could make it. He could imagine a younger man wanting the same kind of ability to cut loose, especially if he’d had a terrible performance earlier in the day. Though Victor wasn’t so sure it was as terrible as Yuri seemed to believe. He was learning about the disconnect between what Yuri believed of himself and what the outside world might make of him in the same breath.

“There’s no age limit on stupid decisions,” Victor said instead. “It’s learning from them that’s supposed to mean anything, if what Yakov yells at the back of my head means what I think it does.” Victor smiled; the expression largely lost to Yuri. It didn’t seem to dispel Yuri’s tension, but he didn’t outright deny it, either.

Progress? Victor wasn’t sure. He fell back into silence. Before it stretched into awkwardness, Yuri spoke once more.

“I don’t remember much of what happened. Phichit told me I’d gone wild dancing, joined in with another performer on the main stage, and the ones after. Everyone was dancing in the central square, and I was using shadow magic like it was nothing.” He hesitated; years later, and he still found his friend’s words bittersweet and difficult to swallow. Yet they were from Phichit, some of the final words he’d ever said, and Yuri owed it to him to not forget what they were. 

“Phichit said it was one of the most scandalous things he’d seen. I’m not sure _how_ , but it didn’t seem like it’d matter either. I figured he was teasing me.” His shoulders rose a fraction of a centimeter, enough to indicate a shrug.” His shoulders rose a fraction of a centimeter, enough to indicate a shrug. “We headed out of town once Celestino had shaken off the worst of his hangover. Gave me time to handle mine,” he said, feeling he needed to be fair to Celestino’s memory. It also pulled a low chuckle out of Victor, sending a slow curl of warmth mixed with shame for his younger self’s actions. Nothing he could change now. 

“We camped for the evening at one of the way stations. Celestino preferred being where we could have active wards, so… we usually camped in way stations when they were available.” 

Victor hummed at his back, holding him close. When Yuri trembled, Victor didn’t think it was just in reaction to his return to warmth. He also didn’t feel it was unwarranted, waiting for Yuri to continue when Yuri took the pause as another excuse to drink from his cup of warm water.

When he started again, he didn’t pick up his narrative where he left it. Instead, he asked a question, turning his head slightly so that Victor could better see one brown eye peering through lashes back at him. “Have you ever seen one of them? The Good Neighbours?”

Victor dropped his gaze, remembering. To Yakov or any of his troupe, he’d have said he didn’t think so; that in his life and the times held within it, he could remember nothing of the Old Ones, the Good Neighbours, or whatever one took to calling those who were not human, for all they could look close. It was Yuri’s halting honesty that pulled him into his own confused honesty, allowing himself an uncertainty that didn’t plague him with most his memories. “When I was young, I think I did. Just the once. I couldn’t have been more than seven, but they were…” He frowned, trailing off. Without thinking about it, he leaned his head against Yuri’s, searching for words that eluded his grasp. “Terrifyingly beautiful.”

Something close to laughter bubbled up through Yuri’s chest, spilling past his thick tongue, his chilled lips. “Or just terrifying? I don’t think I can even understand that kind of beauty. It was too much. They walked into our camp, you know, slipped through the wards like they weren’t there. We were sleeping, and the next moment we were up, and there was the _music_.”

Yuri paused, the memory of that night filled with confusing, conflicting images. He could remember the music, compelling and so difficult to resist. His own fear had locked his knees in place; Phichit had already started dancing, while Celestino stood to Yuri’s side, holding on to his own arm like it was an anchor, fingernails biting into skin. Yuri could remember that detail so clearly, the indents of flesh under nails, and the disconnected realisation that Celestino slept in a short sleeved tunic. 

Then there had been the Good Neighbour, the woman of pale features, of red lined eyes and the crystalline glitter of her gowns, woven from what, Yuri had been unable to imagine. Snow? Ice? Starlight? Crystal itself? She glinted and glimmered in the moonlight, seeming to move without moving. Yet her eyes had been most terrible of all, bright, almost glowing, and hungry. Hungry with an appetite that didn’t know how to be appeased.

Terrifying was the best word Yuri had to describe how she’d felt, and it was nowhere near strong enough.

His silence stretched long enough that Victor shifted his head away, giving Yuri a little room in their blanket nest. Yuri blinked, only realising he’d been caught in his own unhappy memories with Victor’s movement. “Um, anyway, she — their leader, if they had one, she asked for me to dance. Or commanded me, but she said it like she was asking, and I didn’t…”

He lifted his cup, staring down into it. Victor found himself finishing the sentence with his own musing.

“You said no, and you meant it. Yuri, I have to say, of the few people who run into the Old Neighbours, I haven’t heard of anyone outright standing up to them and succeeding.” 

“It wasn’t a success!” His voice didn’t have the strength of the outrage he felt, or the pain and associated guilt, even five years later. He fumbled his mug, shoving his arms forward and setting it to the ground as he squirmed around to face Victor. He missed his heat as he did, but this was important. He couldn’t be misunderstood, not on this. “I said no, and I kept saying no, and she turned me into _this!”_ He pitched his voice higher, eyes narrowing as he trembled with _anger_ at himself, at how the memory still left him sick at heart. “You ungrateful beast, you _mortal_ , he who says no to a simple request as if he were _my_ better. What court surrounds you? What magic have you wrought to impress _me_ , who so graciously invited you to perform for our mutual pleasure? _Nothing._ You, who know nothing of love, who are _nothing_ , will wear your nature on the surface. You will remain like this until you know love and are loved in return. Much luck to you, _beast_.”

There had been more, but he remembered it less clearly; something about a court of beasts, of begging, but he’d been in such overwhelming pain as the magic tore through him and he desperately fought against it with his own magic. With water, but there was so little around; with shadow, pulling on the residual magic the Old Ones stirred into being, pulling on the shadows the night grew long and trying to preserve himself through the pain. Celestino had been there, at first; Yuri didn’t know when he left. He didn’t know when any of them had left; he turned around, holding himself scantly away from Victor.

“I don’t remember anything but the pain then. When I woke up, all the Old Ones were gone, but so were Phichit and Celestino. I was inside the front hall of the castle, and there you have it.”

Victor reached out, hands alighting gently on Yuri’s shoulders. He waited for them to be shrugged off; Yuri leaned back into his palms after a few beats of his heart, energy draining out of him. Victor tucked him back against his chest with a little assistance from Yuri, their blanket nest a muddled mess Victor set to righting best he could. His priority was still keeping Yuri warm. The shivering was under better control, but Yuri was still noticeably colder than Victor would like.

The fact that he didn’t object to simply having him close regardless was one he accepted for what it was. He wanted Yuri here, looking as human as he had always acted, or looking as furred as was familiar to Victor. 

How much was he even seeing Yuri now? Victor blinked, focusing on what he could see of Yuri’s cheek and nose from where he was at his back. The rest of them were bundled, though the skin of Yuri’s back was smooth, the steady way he breathed a reassurance Victor could feel. His legs pressed against Victor’s felt like any other legs; Victor was finding it difficult to recall much of any detail from earlier, when his desperate panic had been driving him to do anything he could to get Yuri warm.

Why was he human now? Had the curse been broken? Victor didn’t ask, trying to extend his paltry returning magic to touch the ambient magic around them. The pulse through the castle shivered in response, magic still flowing too strongly, different from how it had been the last new moon.

Why?

Yuri swallowed, not knowing what to make of their mutual silence. Thankful for it at first; for not being asked anything he had to defend, like the days, weeks, months he spent searching for signs of Phichit or Celestino, the way their voices had haunted him when he found himself back in the castle, alone. 

“I couldn’t find them,” he said anyway, pulling his legs up, wrapping his arms around his knees. “I looked, but I couldn’t find them. I couldn’t even find the way station.”

Victor didn’t know what to say. He rubbed one hand over Yuri’s upper arm, searching for anything. “The Old One may have enchanted them so you couldn’t. Phichit, Celestino, and the way station.”

“I know.” Yuri didn’t sound convinced, but he knew the possibility. Magic that could transform a person’s form could well cause them to be unable to see a certain place, or perhaps even certain people. What were the limitations? So little was known about the extent of magic used by the Old Ones. Stories talked about some feats that seemed too incredible to believe, but then here he was. Here the whole _castle_ was, testimony to what else but magic and its possibilities?

The castle was a curiosity that plucked at Victor’s attention as he held Yuri, the both of them lapsing into a more companionable silence than before. When he did intrude on that silence, his tone was musing, kept mild as he stared out from their blankets and watched the fire burning steadily in the hearth.

“Do you think the castle’s hers too?”

Yuri hesitated, breathing slowing as he considered an answer for Victor. For himself, too, with as often as he’d debated the subject at hand. He finally shook his head, firm in his denial. “No, I don’t think so. I think it was convenient, probably, but the magic here feels more, mm, warm? Warmer than her touch. The only time it feels the same is when —”

He stiffened in Victor’s arms, cutting himself off. He could feel the brush of magic against his senses, probing, sliding under his skin and reaching for his core. It was more gentle than he could remember from even the month before, but the sick dread that twisted in his stomach as the transformation magic started to weigh on him left the almost finished cup of lemon water dropping from his hands, spilling across the blankets over his lap. Yuri pulled hard on the vestiges of his magic that had been collecting again within him, fighting against the magic as it sought to take hold.

Victor caught Yuri when he jerked backward into him, feeling the shift in ambient magic and Yuri’s own violent internal response. He held on to him as he thrashed, a low moan of distress followed by a sharp refusal, Yuri calling out, “ _No!_ ”

How did Yuri even have the reserves to fight? Victor would have marveled over that oddity of magical endurance if he himself hadn’t done similar when under enough duress. It was less important than the recent memory of the tangle that had been at Yuri’s core, when the magic of the transformation had been entangled with Yuri’s own magic in such a painful, knotted mess.

“Yuri,” he said, voice steady and calm because it needed to be, “Don’t fight it. It’s another pattern, another dance. You know the steps. Trust yourself. You can lead the magic. You don’t have to let it lead you.”

So much of it felt like nonsense, but if it was nonsense, it was nonsense Victor believed with all his being. Yuri struggled, breathing harder, and Victor relaxed his hold, helped awkwardly pull blankets off their heads and free Yuri’s arms. It seemed to help, Yuri twisting around to fix Victor with wide, anxious eyes.

“I can?” There was a desperation behind the way he asked, how one hand came up to almost reach out to Victor, stopping short.

Victor made himself smile, nodding his head once as he took hold of Yuri’s hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “You can, and you will. I know it.”

Yuri’s eyes searched Victor’s, trembling as he wrestled with another twist of the magic. When he squeezed Victor’s hand in return, he swallowed and nodded the smallest amount, feeling warmth touch off deep in his chest. Breathing was even more difficult, his eyes watering as a choked sound couldn’t quite escape his lips. The magic frightened him, laden with memories and emotions he didn’t want to embrace.

Victor believed in him. Maybe it would have been the same if there’d been anyone to believe in him before, to tell him he could take control of this when he’d always felt swept away by the tides of magic around him, but he didn’t feel that was the case. Victor believed in Yuri, and Yuri could believe in Victor — even when he didn’t believe in himself. That mattered. That _meant_ something.

He closed his eyes, the dread still in his stomach, but the determination slipping into heart keeping him steady as he stopped fighting the magic. He trembled in response to the press of magic against his senses, fighting down his fear of being overtaken, of being changed even further into a monster. He made himself think, allowing his emotions to run as they would, knowing right then his determination would have to win over everything.

He refused to accept any other outcome.

Yuri studied the magic within, following its pattern, sliding his own deliberate magic along the same pathways. Soon he wasn’t following after, but he was taking hold of the mass of powerful magic, tugging it along. He tried at first to redirect it from its purpose, to spin it into another dance, but as he did he felt his control start to crumble. Firming his resolve, Yuri poured himself into the internal shift and sway, leading the magic into the intricate weave he knew as well as the back of his own furred hand.

Little by little, he directed the magic to fall into place, Victor a steady warmth by his side. The changes came over him in a gentler wave, more bearable than last month, where he’d made himself pass out simply to try and escape the pain. 

To Victor, watching, it was as if the outline of Yuri softened and blurred, pale skin and dark hair gaining a halo in the firelight. Shadow seemed to steal over Yuri, spilling down from his shoulders like water, sliding down the planes of his exposed chest to disappear into the tangled nest of blankets around his waist. Victor didn’t know how long it took; he could feel Yuri work with the magic, found himself smiling even as the changes to Yuri made him want to reach out and pull him closer, to try and scrub away the shadow that clung like ink to his skin. Yuri hadn’t let go of Victor’s hand, almost held on to the point of pain, but the wrinkle to Yuri’s forehead and the intensity of his concentration showed he wasn’t asking to be saved. Only to not be alone in the face of what frightened him.

_Brave_ , Victor thought to himself, closing his own eyes when the softening of Yuri’s outline threatened to turn his stomach. When he felt the prickle and press of fur against his bare legs, the silken shift in texture of Yuri’s hand in his own, Victor opened his eyes. Where the man had sat, now the more familiar Yuri sat instead, sharp muzzle, overlarge ears, silver ticked fur around his eyes. Victor had no idea how to feel about any of it; he felt the magic winding down into a steady pulse, then nothing at all. Yuri’s hold on VIctor’s hand loosened: Victor tightened his grip in return, only to meet Yuri’s gaze when his eyes opened.

The same warm brown he’d grown used to seeing. Victor found himself smiling, Yuri’s canine grin in return a slow blossoming affair.

“I did it,” Yuri said. 

“You did.”

“It wasn’t as bad as it usually is.”

“That’s good.” Or concerning, for all Victor wanted to try and not look concerned by what he’d already guessed might be true. Yuri didn’t seem to notice, returning Victor’s squeeze of his hand at last, thoughtlessly.

“I’m —” Yuri started, breaking into a yawn he tried to hide behind one hand, one ear quirking backward. “Tired,” he said, feeling that exhaustion crashing over him from the use of depleted magic along with the emotional exhaustion of trying to open up with stories of his past he didn’t like to share.

Victor didn’t mind, not from what Yuri could tell. Instead he found himself tugged forward, surrendering to the suggestion of movement that left him leaning into Victor, collecting his limbs from their awkward sprawl beneath their nest of blankets. Victor ran a hand through his hair, once; reached up and gently tweaked one over-sized ear as he chuckled.

“No wonder. You have amazing magical stamina, did you know that? Sleep, Yuri. We can talk again later.”

Yuri grunted, wanting to laugh at the idea of having amazing stamina for how functionally useless that felt most the time. He breathed in instead, the return of his enhanced senses letting him take in more of Victor’s scent. The reduced clarity of colour didn’t matter in the lighting of the fire; mattered even less when he closed his eyes and listened to the steady beat of Victor’s heart. “Yeah.”

Yuri was asleep before Victor had finished tugging one of the blankets back over his shoulders. Makkachin whined from where she’d been watching with canine impatience, finally crawling closer and shoving her head onto their combined laps. Yuri didn’t appear to notice. Victor patted her thick curls after carefully removing his hand from Yuri’s, feeling his own exhaustion close to sweeping him away.

“Good girl,” he said, Yuri breathing out in a sigh and shoving his face up against Victor’s neck with a wordless grumble. Makkachin blinked, echoing the sigh a moment after. It was enough to prompt him into chuckling, trying to ignore the tickling sensations of fur against skin. 

Later in the morning, he’d remember there’d been a tea cup under all those blankets; hopefully one that would still be intact. Later on, he’d wonder at why the feel of the magic that transformed Yuri felt familiar. Later still, he’d remember to ask Yuri yet again to take him out into his greenhouse, to where he kept the blue rose.

For now, he closed his eyes, one arm holding Yuri close, the other draped around his dog, and was simply thankful for a moment of peace and all the attached emotions and mysteries that came tied up in Yuri Katsuki. He was asleep when the blankets were further arranged by invisible hands, voices speaking into the quiet as Makkachin lifted her head.

" _Oh, Yuri, you lovely fool. We were never gone. You just never learned how to believe in what you were hearing._ " Laughter followed, lost in the crackling of the fire in the hearth, juts as warm as the heat it threw.

* * *

Pale eyes fluttered open, framed by translucent lashes. Overlong fingers brushed a cascade of white hair off a forehead even more pristine than fresh-fallen snow, thin lips with a blue cast pressing into an even thinner line. The being, perhaps female, perhaps not, lounged on their throne of ice and snow, shifting to send silver flakes of snow swirling down to the ground by their feet as they gazed toward the line crystal trees ringing their frozen court.

White wolves slunk into the clearing where they stood, tails between their legs, heads held low to the ground. They moved in silence, eyes averted, coming to a rest on their bellies, ears pressed back against their skulls. 

“Fascinating,” they said, rising with a fluid grace that sent the wolves groveling even lower, one whimpering. Their voice was cold, misleadingly low. “Your Prince of Beasts has learned a new trick. I wonder, of whom did he have the learning?” They hummed, the sound of wind over ice, swaying gently in thought.

“We shall see.” They came to a stop, lips curling upward into a smile that held no warmth, for all it was amused. When they laughed, it was the sound of ice breaking under the foot of an unwary child crossing a creek, about to plunge into the icy water. “It has been some time, has it not? We shall deign to pay him a visit. But first, I think, we shall entertain ourselves.”

Their gaze shifted, peering off into the distance, looking toward the city that lay within their reach. The being smiled wider, sharp canines exposed in both challenge and irritation as the wolves whined, sad sounds muffled by the snow all around. 

“Yes,” they said. “We shall entertain ourselves indeed.”

* * *

It would be three days before the witches of the city could all agree that they knew of none of their number who had gone missing with the new moon. As the sunset of the last day of the year painted the skies in scarlet and indigo, the city would laugh, and celebrate. The Feltsman Troupe would feel their missing member all the more keenly, consider their options for bringing Victor home.

At the edge of the city, a pale figure would stroll idly across the top of the fresh fallen snow, escorted by wolves too large to be natural, and stare into the depths of the flickering lights and lives of those looking to welcome the new year. Lifting one elegant hand, they would call on the magics of the land, demanding they rise to meet their request, and with a snap of their fingers, they would unleash the single largest surge of magic the city had ever experienced.

In the resulting chaos, as electric circuits blew, as fires and hearths and lamps surged and consumed, as safety mechanisms failed in the face of an onslaught none of them had been designed for, so unaccountable was the strength of the surge, the pale figure would crouch and whisper to the wolves, “Find the strongest and bring them back to me.”

Into the city the wolves would plunge, driven by the terrible purpose behind those words, music following at their heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little snippets at the end to help set the scene for what's getting wrapped in the final chapter. No timing promises, but I'm going to work hard to get this all out and finished! I had most of this done in August, but unfortunately life steamrolled me and I only managed to finish up tonight. Wee! Human Yuri at last (for a while, at least), and technically a few answers to ongoing questions. My apologies for the wait! 
> 
> With regards to the Old Ones, the Good Neighbours, and everything else that Victor and Yuri have been referencing in the story so far -- they're dealing with the Fae, in one form or another. Since we finally hear directly about and meet the one related to Yuri's situation in this chapter, it felt worth clarifying!
> 
> Catch me on Twitter @shadhahvar!


	10. in which victor visits the greenhouse, and yuri faces down his own monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the final chapter, Yuri wrestles with his growing feelings, finding the strength within to give them a name, but not before tragedy strikes the city. The Feltsman Troupe fights to help people and buildings survive the firestorm in the wake of a massive magic surge that shorts out the entire electrical grid, but all is not as it seems when the attack has been coordinated by a Fae taking a temporary interest in human affairs; a Fae that Yuri knows from his past.
> 
> Brought face to face with his own fears, he has to choose what he's living for, and what it is that love means to him before it's too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note at the start: the chapter count has only been adjusted to account for an epilogue so I can wrap a few loose ends after the main action. Thank you!

He’d woken late that morning, still exhausted from the night before. Makkachin was curled against his side, Victor nowhere to be found. The mystery of his disappearance was solved before Yuri managed to more than squirm out of the nest of blankets leaving him overheated. Holding a tray of easy breakfast food, Victor had flashed him an unreadable look before smiling and setting the tray on the dresser.

“The greenhouse.” Victor stood with one hand on his hip, the other loose at his side, foot tapping as he kept a level gaze on Yuri. “Let’s go after eating.”

Yuri didn’t like feeling ordered around for all he knew he’d promised more than once he’d show Victor his greenhouse. His brain was catching up at an alarming rate, reminding him that not only had he talked about what happened when he was eighteen, he’d _passed out_ on Victor afterward, a further imposition and embarrassment to them both. 

No, he knew it wasn’t exactly embarrassing. Victor would have said if he minded; Victor had been kind, but he’d never felt like a pushover in the weeks they’d spent together. Feeling like he’d shared too much of himself was what had Yuri feeling off-center, even while part of him felt lighter at the same time. Five years of having no one to talk to might not be the way he needed or wanted to live. 

He rubbed at the fur to either side of his cheeks, opening his mouth to sigh. 

“Okay. Please tell me you brought tea?”

Victor reached back to tap one finger on the tray, not looking away. His foot had stopped moving, shoulders relaxing a fraction. “Green.” 

Victor relaxed further when Yuri stepped up and squinted down at the contents of the tray, sniffing before he reached for the teapot and carefully poured himself a mug of tea. Victor had half expected resistance to him pushing, not keen on feeling he needed to do so, but whatever had left Yuri’s ears pointing toward the back of his head hadn’t turned into an outright refusal. 

Victor had enough tact not to bring up the night before until Yuri did, or at least not until he was fed and several of his other questions had been answered. The need to see the greenhouse felt like an itch under his skin, leaving him distracted and caught up in his own thoughts while Yuri ate. He still found himself looking his way, trying to read the set of his ears, the wrinkle of his muzzle, the furrow of his brow. Just how different it’d been seeing him without the fur, with a normal human face, only seemed to register now.

Yuri had taken a thick slice of bread and his tea back to the bed, the largest available surface to sit on in the room. His tail twitched against the sheets, curling around his hip as he chewed and swallowed.

“You’re not eating?” he asked Victor after a moment, glancing up to catch him looking in his direction.

Victor lifted a small plate with its own piece of sliced bread, coming over to sit by Yuri’s side. His exaggerated hum of enjoyment as he bit into the bread left Yuri snorting in amusement. 

VIctor finished his bread first, Yuri taking his time between lapping up small sips of tea and tearing into his bread with delicate nibbles. It was as if having been human again had brought back to mind just how different the way he ate and drank these days were compared to everyone else. 

“Your hair’s a mess.” 

Yuri blinked, lowering his tea and looking to the side to stare at Victor. They’d been existing in companionable silence, ignoring Yuri’s own thoughts. Where had _that_ come from?

“I haven’t had a chance to brush it out this morning?” Why had he asked it like it was a question? Yuri grimaced, reaching up to pat his unbound hair into some kind of control.

Victor shook his head, brushing the palms of his hands together to dislodge any lingering crumbs from his meal. “I can pull it back into a queue while you eat. If you’d like.”

The tip of Yuri’s tail twitched in agitation, one ear flicking toward Victor, the other staying pointed forward. If he allowed himself too much time to respond, he knew he’d be back at refusing. That it hadn’t been his first knee jerk reaction was telling in and of itself.

“If you don’t mind,” Yuri said, one ear still canted toward Victor. There was no way of him mistaking the note of pleasure in Victor’s voice when he replied, even if Yuri couldn’t see anything clearly on his face.

“I’d love to, Yuri.” He leaned toward the side table, setting his plate there before he turned and clambered on the bed. 

Yuri braced his tea as Victor knee-walked behind him, ears canting backward to better hear him as he settled in. His tail pressed closer to his side, resisting an urge to thrash or wag. One would have been worse than the other, Yuri decided, especially as he felt Victor’s fingers running through his hair. He determinedly stared down his tea, trying to ignore the sensation of each gentle tug while Victor collected his hair back off his face, careful to guide it around over-large, triangular ears.

He thought about some of the easier topics from the night before as Victor tamed his hair, twisting the collected ponytail until he could knot the hair back around itself. It wouldn’t hold up to strenuous activity, but it kept the whole of Yuri’s hair off his face, pulled up into a tight bun at the back of his head. Knotted almost as firmly as his own thoughts.

“All done!” Victor’s cheerful announcement jolted Yuri out of his contemplation, tea held in his hands. One ear tilted back, twitching as he found himself opening his mouth, feeling too warm again. 

He almost ask for Victor to do it all over again, to prolong the moment. Instead he cleared his throat, concentrating on swiveling both his ears to face forward. “Thank you.” Lifting his tea, he turned his face to the side, enough to almost glimpse Victor over his shoulder. “You can touch them, if you want.” He twitched one ear, hearing Victor’s soft noise of confusion.

Surprised into laughing as understanding hit, Victor reaching out to squeeze Yuri’s shoulder. He leaned forward, peering at Yuri’s face with a grin.

“You’re giving me permission to touch your ears? What happens if you actually like it? We can ask Makkachin, I’m _very_ good at ear massages —”

A garbled sound escaped Yuri’s throat as he scrambled up to his feet, ears pressing against his skull as Victor laughed, catching himself with one hand before he fell off the bed. “Nevermind, permission revoked! There will be no ear play in this castle!”

Victor shook his head, still chuckling under his breath as he slid off the bed, straightening his shirt. “Not even a little?” He made a mournful sound, shaking his head. “Who knew you would end up being such a relentless tease?”

Makkachin danced outside the door with Victor, head bobbing as she looked between both men. A decisive wag of her tail later, and she was contentedly leading the way down the stone hall toward the stairs.

Yuri went trotting after her, waving his arms in the air and shooting Victor a glare back over his shoulder. “I am not!”

Victor laughed again, resisting poking at Yuri any further once he’d slid off the bed and caught up with him. “Words aren’t the only things that speak,” he said, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. Yuri didn’t have a comment past a sharp exhalation, not quite a snort, but definitely not accepting whatever his point was.

The problem was Yuri found himself considering what Victor said too carefully. The concept wasn’t new. The idea that what one did spoke volumes about who they were was fairly standard, pervasive through so much of life. It didn’t need to be big actions. The small ones said volumes, the littlest gestures to the grandest overtures. What did his actions say about him? What gestures did he make in day to day life?

He didn’t know if he could say. These days, it felt like they were less hollow than they’d become in the last few years. If that was because of Victor, or because of something in Yuri, he didn’t want to say. Maybe it was both. Maybe it was a delusion.

Victor paused in the grand hall to retrieve his boots, pulling a pair of socks out of one and carrying the whole toward the back doors Yuri prefered to use when visiting the greenhouse. He hadn’t interrupted Yuri’s silent thoughts, watching him out of the corner of his eye. Yuri’s ears kept twitching, muzzle wrinkling at whatever occurred to him, before his features grew more agitated. Victor dropped down onto a chair conveniently close to the door, pulling on his socks as Makkachin pawed at the door. A door that opened without Yuri’s help, Makkachin leaping outside and barking as she dug at the snow.

The door closed quietly behind her, Yuri staring at it in consternation. Victor had to smile; whatever oddities of the castle and its invisible servants, they had a knack for interrupting all kinds of moods. “I was going to do that,” Yuri informed the door, Victor shaking his head as he finished lacing up his boots.

“Looks like you’re not the only one threatening to take this old man’s dog.” 

“You’re not _old_.” Yuri reached out to turn the door handle, stepping into the late morning chill. “Old people look distinguished. You don’t look distinguished _._ If anything, you’re way too attractive.”

Victor tripped following after Yuri, caught off guard by the direct compliment out of nowhere. He laughed, not sure what else to do. “To be old?”

“To be real. Are you sure you’re not one of the Good Neighbours yourself?”

It was the twinkle in Yuri’s eye paired with the jaunty cant of an ear that finally gave away his tease, enough so that Victor found himself closing the door behind him and shaking his head as he chuckled. “Here he was saying he wasn’t a tease all of what, five minutes ago? Makkachin, I don’t think Yuri was telling the truth.”

Yuri brought his chin up, tail sweeping behind him in a mockery of affront. “Groundless accusations, Victor, you should be ashamed of yourself.” It was easier to fall into banter that meant nothing as they crossed the distance to the greenhouse door than to think about what any of it might mean. 

The shapes and shadows of the plants within were visible, but a sense of heaviness as they approached that had Victor considering the building with serious eyes. Yuri hadn’t been comfortable with letting him in for so long. Why?

What was in there, aside from the blue rose, and the rose bush it’d originally come from? Herbs, he knew about those, and various other roses, from what Yuri had said before. None of it had seemed secret. So why?

Unconsciously he straightened as Yuri reached the door, stretching one hand out to take hold of the handle. Yuri had to take a breath, steeling himself, before he stepped forward with a twist of his hand. The heat and heavy scent of living plants and soil wafted past him, striking Victor with an almost physical force. Yuri stopped just inside the threshold, tail swaying side to side, nervous.

He turned, opening the door further, sweeping one arm out to invite Victor inside his sanctuary. More so than the library could ever have been, more so than the kitchen, which would remind him of warmer times, surrounded by people and not his own isolation.

He welcomed Victor into his haven, and he told himself he did not regret it. Watching Victor’s face, the slide from neutrality to blinking astonishment as he stepped inside, made Yuri’s heart swell in response. If it was pride or affection or a mixture of both, he couldn’t say, but he found himself smiling as Victor walked on, moving into the center aisle. The well-swept tile stained under snowy boots, leaving a trail of footprints back to the entrance as Victor came to a stop, taking everything in.

Magic pulsed around him, living emotion that clung to the raised beds and lovingly tended flowers and plants spanning the length of the building. It pressed against him, a riot of feelings he could barely sort through: close by, he felt a general contentment, while a little further down ached loneliness, a sharp counterpoint to a warmth of such deep, growing affection that Victor half expected to find rubbing up against his ankles like a cat. There was also nervousness, and sadness; anger that throbbed, elation humming beyond it. A simple sort of happiness, warm like summer’s sunlight.

 _Georgi wouldn’t believe this_. This wasn’t Georgi’s magic, though it reminded Victor of it as he started walking forward, hands twitching at his sides. Georgi touched people’s hearts, their minds. He could ease, or he could aggravate. This wasn’t direct. Victor stopped by a riot of pink and maroon, wild roses spilling cheerfully over the confines of their raised bed. He reached out, fingers gently cupping one blossom. There it was, in that moment: the magic that moved through the wild roses, a sense of elation that thrummed against his senses, the same hum he’d detected earlier.

Water magic couldn’t do that. This was something that lived within the roses themselves, responding to the strength of what their gardener had given. Victor turned his head to look toward Yuri. Yuri, who stood looking nervous, one ear pointed back, the other held low and canted out to the side. Yuri, whose hands were twisting around each other, fingers smoothing over the fine fur of his knuckles. Yuri, whose tail lashed uncertainly as he called out to Victor.

It’d always been Yuri.

“Victor?”

It’d been Yuri, the whole time. The anger he’d felt when Yakov had taken the blue rose made sense, now, in a way it hadn’t before. As had Yakov’s thoughtlessness. It’d bothered Victor to think his mentor and their troupe leader had been so thoughtless when he’d always cared so much for respect.

“It’s not much, I know, but it’s the effort I’ve made… I know it can’t be impressive if you’ve seen any of the gardens in the city, but…”

Yakov had felt the emotion, reaching out without stopping to think. Victor let himself relax, letting the magic brush over and around him, a passive observer. Yuri continued speaking, but for better or worse, Victor wasn’t hearing him right then.

“... trying to get them to grow, but then I changed what I had in the soil, and they seemed to do better even in the winter. It’s like they all stopped going dormant at once…”

There, close to the entrance. Victor’s eyes flicked from Yuri to the trellis of blue roses, seeing them for the first time. It wasn’t the seeing that was important. Victor focused his attention on them, reaching out with his magic. The brush of loneliness and hope hit his stomach with an almost physical force. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

“Victor? I knew this was a bad idea, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have let you in here —”

Victor jerked his head around, moving toward Yuri before he was thinking about taking action. He didn’t need to think: he needed to respond. It wasn’t wrong to bring him here. It wasn’t a bad idea, but it showed Victor how much he’d assumed, and how much Yuri had assumed as well.

It wasn’t that Yuri hadn’t been using his magic all along. The evidence had always been right there. Yuri had steeped the only good things in his life with the essence of his magic, water and shadow both, feeding it into the very plants he nurtured. Yuri didn’t know it, but how would he? He hadn’t wanted to see.

“Victor?”

He didn’t take lightly to invading other people’s space. There was always a reason, like there was now as he wrapped his arms around Yuri in a one-sided hug. “You’re incredible,” he said, feeling Yuri stiffen in his confusion.

“What?!”

“All of this, it’s beautiful, it’s… you don’t see it, do you?” His soft laughter was muffled against his own arm. “I’ve been wondering about it for a while, you know. The differences between the magics we do. Light magic, shadow magic. People say they’re sides of the same kind of magic, and I suppose they’re right, but I didn’t think about what that really _meant_.”

He leaned back, Yuri bringing his hands up to rest on Victor’s arms, expression confused, and a little pleased. Victor could tell from the way one of Yuri’s ears tipped forward, the other following suit in spite of the way his forehead furrowed.

“I don’t understand what you mean by any of that. What does shadow magic have to do with anything here? I use water magic in the greenhouse.” He was speaking slowly, matter of fact, as if he doubted Victor knew what he was saying.

Obstinate, but not surprising. They were both stubborn men. Maybe that’s why —

“You’ve been using both all along. See, with light magic… light magic burns itself into memory, if it wants to create a lasting impression. What you remember about it, that fleeting emotion, the ways the illusions can make you feel, it’s all passing. There’s no weight. There can’t be.”

Yuri shook his head, starting to have suspicions about where Victor was going with this. “No, it’s, light magic is beautiful, it’s amazing, it’s probably one of the most useful magics out there —”

“ _Shadow_ magic is what carries emotion. The depths of how people feel aren’t all light, are they? They can’t be. Light burns away. It touches the surface of everything, but you have to let it in any further. Shadow magic is already there, in all the places people don’t think to look. Shadow magic has a weight to it. It knows how to linger.” Light could, when formed properly, but it was different; nothing Victor could do carried the same _emotion_ with it. By its very nature, his magic couldn’t.

Neither of their magics could in the way that Georgi’s could, but it wasn’t about changing how someone felt. It was carrying the witch’s emotions, allowing that emotion to brush against others, to stir a response without dictating.

Yuri’s ears both pointed back, his eyes widening, mouth dropping open. “No,” he said, denying what Victor was saying. “That can’t be true. That doesn’t make sense! Where are you getting any of this from?!”

“Your garden, Yuri. It’s not just a garden. It’s _you_. Everything in here carries _you_ along with it. I felt it when I first stepped inside, and it’s,” he struggled for words, squeezing Yuri’s shoulders. “It’s amazing.”

The idea that the whole of his sanctuary was a roadmap to a tapestry of his own emotion sounded more horrifying than amazing. Yuri felt himself tensing, choking on words as he sent a panicked look over Victor’s shoulder.

“It’s not amazing,” he said, shaking his head. “It sounds _horrible_.”

Victor’s brow furrowed, studying Yuri’s face as Yuri gazed wide-eyed past him. He brought his hands up, holding Yuri’s shoulders. He didn’t know any more what to do to help make Yuri see than he felt like he did half the time: Yuri’s anxiety existed here in as real a form as it did anywhere, perhaps even amplified.

Yet so did everything else. The contentment, the happiness, the joy, the loneliness, the pride. The magic that Yuri had worked for years to give himself an outlet that had never needed words, that hadn’t required dance, when he denied dance to himself.

“Come here,” Victor said, tugging Yuri forward. He reached out with his magic, brushing past the different woven patterns, looking for one that called to him too. A pattern that wasn’t just Yuri’s, that Victor had felt more than once. Why hadn’t he recognised it before?

_I wasn’t looking._

He pulled Yuri forward, taking his arm in his, searching for that familiar thread. The pattern of a magic that had first felt frightening and limiting, that had changed, because magic did not understand how to be stagnant. A skill that people might benefit from learning too, he realised, the thought set to the side as he moved.

Yuri didn’t even try to find the words, tense and confused and disturbed on a level he didn’t know how to address. Also, bizarrely, happy. Why was he happy? He tried to stop their movement, but Victor impolitely ignored it, pulling Yuri through and nudging him off to the side as he found what he was looking for.

The blue rose sat in its clay pot on the shelf, sunlight dappled over its leaves. Its rich blue petals had further blossomed from the last time Victor had seen it, the whole of the flower large enough now to be cupped in one hand, supporting its delicate weight. It wasn’t the binding that he felt with it, the call that had brought him to the castle in the first place that warmed his chest now. It was different, and had been, since before Yuri had show it to him when it’d first started to bloom.

He hadn’t wanted to name it. Did everything need a name, to be known? To be felt? No, he didn’t believe so, but with Yuri wide eyed and breathing too hard at his side, he didn’t know if words or actions or what could bridge that distance.

Yuri sat down without Victor’s prompting, collapsing to the floor and drawing his knees up, focusing on breathing with his hands pressed behind his ears. His breathing wasn’t getting worse, at least, though it ached hearing him like this again.

Victor reached out to pick up the rose in its pot, sinking down next to Yuri, settling at his side. 

“Most everything is too big to hold here,” he said, resting the pot on his thigh. He leaned in against Yuri, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, offering the sort of reassurance Makkachin had given him for years. The fact he was taking cues from his dog wasn’t lost on Victor.

She was much better at any of this than he was.

“Maybe even this, too. Yuri, can you tell me what you feel when you concentrate? Just on the rose. Reach out with your magic, and tell me what you feel.”

Yuri didn’t drop his hands from where they were pressed to his head. He did turn his face, just enough to see the rose settled on Victor’s thigh. He didn’t want to, scared and thrilled both at once to acknowledge anything, any emotion tied in with his greenhouse. The garden of his heart, and how had he never _noticed_ any of that?

Swallowing with a mouth gone dry, Yuri focused on the blue petals, counting them to a slower beat than his heart, regulating his breathing. Reaching out past that to _feel_ with his magic, balking at the first touch of magic in return. His magic, but not just his. Opening himself further to the pattern, the working that he’d thought was only his own sometime in the past, he could feel the other thread of magic moving to another pattern. One with the stamp of Victor’s touch, winding around his own.

The shadows were harder to understand, a thrum of warmth where he expected to find cold. Beating, like his own heart. Steadied by another beat, another heart. Victor’s?

Below, then. Yuri opened himself further, letting the pattern of the magic flow past him. Letting himself be aware of the feeling, if there was one.

“What are you feeling?”

The prompting question burrowed through Yuri’s thoughts, for all his response was still delayed. 

“Warmth,” he said. “Affection? I… I don’t know.” He lowered one leg, bringing a hand down off his head to reach out, brushing a fingertip over one of the rose's leaves. “Fondness. Something happy and startling, heart pounding. Happiness, I think? It’s a little frightening, too.”

Such a complex way of seeing things. Victor smiled in spite of himself: maybe he was just a simpler man. Or maybe he preferred to state himself in simpler ways, compared to the inflections Yuri stumbled over.

Victor hummed his agreement and encouragement, stating his own answer after. “To me, it feels like love.”

Yuri pulled his head up, a slow movement as he turned his face toward Victor. His mouth hung open, though he didn’t breathe as ragged as before. His eyes looked too large, trying to understand. Afraid of understanding.

Victor had to agree. It was scary, but accepting the fear and moving on with it, seeing what happened, that was part of who he was. He didn’t think Yuri was honestly the sort to turn away, not if it was something he wanted.

Yet that depended on Yuri.

“How? That can’t… it’s not just my magic here, Victor.”

He shrugged, gazing down at the rose, thumb brushing against the side of the pot. “I don’t think this is the sort of thing that would grow on its own.” 

Victor let that statement settle between them, Yuri’s hitch in breathing and the small _oh_ that followed the only acknowledgement he earned. The silence they fell into was a companionable one, Yuri slowly unfurling himself. He had nothing to say in that moment, and Victor didn’t press. They both simply looked down at the flower in its pot, until Yuri reached out, curling his hand around the pot, holding the flower alongside Victor. One ear tipped forward, Yuri looking down, feeling his heart beating too fast in his chest.

There were words he wanted to say, that he couldn’t make form, his tongue too thick or the means of structuring sentences temporarily beyond him. What he did find, eventually, was simple, a single word spoken in a soft exhalation.

“Maybe.”

It would have to be enough for now.

* * *

It’d been a tiring day once they’d left the greenhouse. All the snow that had been magiced into Yuri’s room was still there, covering everything; Victor had pragmatically pointed out neither one of them had enough magic to _will_ it all away. They’d taken to the odd task of shoveling indoors, the castle seeming to catch on and joining in with sudden flurries of snow being tossed out the broken windows. They’d set off to find boards to seal over the broken glass, Yuri taking an inventory of linens and clothing and everything else that had been caught underneath the snow and ice from the night before. Some melting along the walls had re-frozen then thawed again, but the damage appeared to be limited.

By the time they’d found Yuri’s tools stashed in the small shed attached to the side of the castle and stomped back in, trying to think of where they’d reappropriate enough lumber for their project, the castle had already handled the situation. Broken windows were boarded over from both sides, and all the linens and clothing had been pulled out and washed. The castle seemed pleased with itself, a mood that persisted through the simpler dinner of stew and bread that Victor insisted on cobbling together.

That night, when they were reading after dinner in the golden room, the fire burning pleasant in the hearth, Yuri came to his own decision. Not about anything important, precisely. Or maybe it was important, in the way so many small acts are important. He set his book aside, standing up and stretching, one hand massaging over his eyes behind his glasses. He fought off a yawn, tired from the draining time in the greenhouse, and in the training and exercise Victor had roped him into by merit of pointing out they had nothing to gain in avoidance. Yuri’s problem had been touched on, but not solved.

Now, close to bed, he glanced toward Victor. With the bulk of the magic build-up gone, electricity worked without interruption, the lamp he’d pulled over to the sofa shining over his shoulder, lighting up the pages of the book he was leafing through, brow furrowed. It was funny in a way Yuri hadn’t expected to know: Victor was reading a romance novel as seriously as some people read academic papers. It was one of Yuri’s favourites, though he’d picked it out as a recommendation for the deft handling of magic the story used rather than the romance between the lead characters. 

His tail curled against his side, tip twitching as he rolled his shoulders. Makkachin was closer to the fire, inelegantly flopped on her side and snoring softly, paws twitching and whining when she chased after dreams in the cozy quiet. It was sweet to watch, but beyond that, it was an important detail.

Makkachin sprawled in front of the hearth meant Victor’s lap was relatively free. Not that Yuri wanted his lap, but the lack of competition would work better for what he’d decided than if Makkachin had also been lounging around for…

He felt himself heating under his fur, what surely should be a blush, if only he could show it. Dear everything, he didn’t want to end that sentence.

Without so much as a by your leave he stepped closer to Victor, all false nonchalance and rabbit-fast heartbeat. With more elegance than he thought he possessed, he settled down at Victor’s feet, tail curled primly around his side and settling into his lap as he gingerly leaned back against Victor’s legs.

He could hear Victor lower his book, could guess at the look aimed at the back of his head. Yuri knew he had one ear quirked backward, listening intently to Victor; he let both ears twitch, slowly turning his head to the side. He’d sort of promised, hadn’t he? Or he’d teased, but he hadn’t really meant it as a tease, just like he didn’t think Victor had entirely meant it as a tease, even the night before.

Still, it was somewhat mortifying to consider how disastrously _wrong_ he might be.

“Yuri?”

Victor sounded like he was asking a question, but he didn’t sound offended, or affronted. Yuri had heard him closer to both of those in other instances, but it was a scant comfort as he tried not to hunch his shoulders, staring at Victor’s knee from the corner of one eye. 

“You said you were good at ear massages? I’d ask Makkachin, but…”

Victor settled his book in his lap, closing it thoughtfully as he looked over Yuri’s head toward his sleeping dog. She gave a little boof as she twitched her paws, her dreams leading her on a merry chase. _Cute_ , he thought to himself. His eyes dropped back down to Yuri, his weight and warmth pleasant against Victor’s shins. _Very cute_ , he thought, the curve to his lips softening his features as he set his book to the side, keeping the page number in mind. 

“She seems otherwise occupied at the moment.” Victor’s tone of voice was agreeable enough. He reached out, brushing the fingers of one hand over Yuri’s hair, from his crown toward the back of his head. “I give a decent head massage, too.”

Yuri’s other ear twisted back, muzzle lifting a little in the air. “Should I ask Makkachin about that, too?”

“Mm, if you want. Or you could just ask me to show you.” He continued stroking his hand over Yuri’s hair, brushing against the base of one ear, watching it twitch in response.

Yuri stared down at his own knee, propped up closer to his chest. His arms were wrapped around it for lack of anything else to hold onto. He’d already made his decision before unceremoniously propping himself up against Victor’s legs, hadn’t he? _Yes_ , he told himself. _I already have._

“Show me,” he said. He hoped he didn’t need to say anything more.

Victor chuckled, fingers twitching as he sat up straight, coaxing Yuri’s hair out of it’s queue. He hasn’t had this permission to touch before, not freely and explicitly given. _Show me_ , Yuri said, and Victor planned to, from the reverent way his fingers raked through the length of Yuri’s hair, to the way they arced out, finding the satin smooth fur at the back base of Yuri’s ears.

He worked his fingers through hair and fur alike, small circular motions with his fingertips, a gentle pressure behind blunted fingernails, massaging from the top of Yuri’s forehead toward the base of his skull. It was fascinating, the difference between hair and fur that Victor felt this way, more so than he’d felt in coaxing Yuri’s hair back into a bun that morning. 

He could feel Yuri lean more heavily into his legs, tail in his lap giving a lazy flick as Yuri’s eyes closed. He found this soothing as well, the slow, deliberate movements of his hands an easy focus. They fell back into quiet, the crackling of the fire louder than any sound they made. Yuri’s head tipped forward, chin tucked in toward his chest. Victor allowed himself to run his fingers through the length of Yuri’s hair with the same slow deliberation as before. 

Yuri hummed a happy note, more of a rumble in his chest that Victor barely heard as he dragged his nails over Yuri’s scalp. It was strange in a way, but he hadn’t been lying the night before. There was something intriguing about Yuri’s oversized ears, enough that he wanted to reach out to touch them more than once, but personal space and an awareness of Yuri’s own mixed feelings over his physicality held Victor back.

He didn’t have to hold back now.

His touch was firm and gentle, the massage of Yuri’s scalp moving on to cupping the back of one ear, considering. He settled on what seemed to set Makkachin most at ease, moving his hand so that he could use his fingers to tug on Yuri’s ear. The slow drag of his fingers from their ticklish place inside Yuri’s ear along with at the back turned into a pleasant sort of pressure, Victor pulling upward in a steady line. Yuri sighed, surprised at how _nice_ it felt. 

“Feel good?”

Yuri made a noise in the back of his throat, agreeing with a rumble that echoed through his chest. His free ear flicked forward, Victor breathing out in a sound of amusement. It was a clear enough answer.

He moved on to find Yuri’s pinna, the small flap of skin on the outside edge of his ear. Makkachin had never seemed as sure she liked this part, but Yuri leaned his head into the motion, breathing out again in a contented sigh as Victor massaged in steady circles with his thumb and forefinger. He was reluctant to move on, appreciating Yuri’s response, but he slipped his hands down to cup around the base of Yuri’s ear regardless.

The fur here was softest at the back; he carded his finger-tips through for a moment, stroking over the short fur there. His palms settled to either side, gentle as he started to rotate Yuri’s ear, adjusting for the lack of floppiness he was used to with Makkachin. Yuri’s tail lashed at first, ear attempting to twitch out of Victor’s hands in surprise. Still, after a moment Yuri relaxed back into Victor’s legs, head resting against his knees.

Victor appreciated this moment for what it was, following the silence in what Yuri didn’t say. Neither one of them needed to have answers right now. Wasn’t this enough, in so many ways? Not an unending time spread before them, but the winter at least, and each month passing while they worked on finding the best solution for the deluge of magic on the new moon.

The rumbling coming from Yuri eventually caught Victor’s attention as he moved on to Yuri’s other ear. Not a growl, though for a moment, he’d wondered if it was. Nothing like a purr. Victor knew what that sounded like from Potya, who enjoyed in a capricious way taking turns greeting members of the Feltsman Troupe when they woke by purring on their chests, staring into their faces with heavy-lidded eyes.

No, it wasn’t a purr, but it was contentment, steady and regular as Yuri’s inhal. Breathing that slowed, Yuri drifting closer and closer to sleep under Victor’s ministrations. He could only smile, wrapped up in the warmth of the sofa and blanket at his back, the press of Yuri against his legs, the fire in the hearth beyond the ornate rug his dog lay sprawled on, dreaming. Skating his thumb and forefinger up along the edge of Yuri’s ear, keeping the pressure firm the whole way, Victor allowed himself to hope.

The New Year was a matter of days away. If they found some way to handle the wolves, if they were still in the region, maybe they could take a trip into the city. Victor missed Yakov, Georgi, Mila, and Yura. He wanted Yuri to know them like he did; he wanted Yuri to love them, too.

He wanted to see Yuri stepping beyond the boundaries of this isolation. Done with the massage of Yuri’s ears, Victor allowed himself to simply stroke his fingers through Yuri’s hair. Combing it out, enjoying the feel of it, such a deep black. Seeing it in the light of the fire and the lamp positioned behind the sofa, he could tell now it’d been the same colour even without the fur. 

He wanted to bring Yuri to the only family Victor could remember. He didn’t have to ask himself why. He knew. Supporting the sleeping weight of Yuri against his legs, idly playing with his hair, Victor studied the man before him.

What were the words behind the magic the Old Ones had wrought? _Until you know love and are loved in return._

His hand stilled, heart feeling too full in his chest. The rose growing in its clay pot in the greenhouse was perhaps more honest than either of them were: or if not more honest, more simple. _I don’t think this is the sort of thing that would grow on its own._

“I love you,” he said, looking at the back of Yuri’s head with a baffled sort of fondness. “You brave heart, living out here on your own for so long. When will you return to the rest of the world?” It was what Victor would love to see; Yuri with that bright shine in his eyes when his interest was caught, when he was searching out his own answers. Walking beyond the estate of the castle, engaging with the wider world again. He felt like it was something Yuri wanted too. Wanted in spite of the very things that kept him here, in his castle in the wild woods.

Nothing shifted in the wake of Victor’s confession. The fire burned as steadily as before; Makkachin whined in her throat, feet twitching, before subsiding into stillness with a satisfied sigh. Yuri’s ears stayed still until the log burning in the hearth broke, caving in on itself. Even then, ears flicking at the sudden intrusion of sound, it wasn’t enough to rouse him. 

Victor shook his head, expression wry. What had he expected? Some incredible magic, some tangible response? There was only one geas that Victor was under. From where he sat, he supposed it was up to Yuri if he ever pulled away from the one he had lived under the last five years. The one that was so heavily tied into Yuri’s own magic that he rewrote it every month, tangled up in knots that had half felt like his own making.

Victor sat with that thought, studying the shape of Yuri from this angle. The twitch of a whiskered muzzle, the flick of an ear as he breathed in, sharp with realisation.

What if it’d been Yuri all along?

He shook the thought off for the time being, reaching for Yuri’s shoulders and giving him a shake to rouse him out of slumber. “Bedtime. I don’t think my back’s going to appreciate a second night spent sleeping sitting up.”

Yuri yawned, grumbling an answer as he blinked himself back into awareness. He went limp, flopping to the side, embracing the floor. “‘m good. Comfortable.”

With a grunt, Victor hauled himself off the couch, stretching himself out. He glanced back down to Yuri, finding he’d tucked his face into his arm. “Yuri,” he said, trailing off when he saw Yuri’s tail give a lazy wag. His snorted in amusement, lips quirking up at the corners. “That good, huh?”

“ _Mmm._ ” Yuri couldn’t summon up the energy to censor himself from the happy sound of agreement. His head felt _fantastic_. His ears felt relaxed in a way that he wouldn’t have thought possible; ignoring them for months outside of cleaning and drying might have been a disservice. Who knew? Even the headache he hadn’t realised had been bothering him all day seemed to have lessened. “Do it again?”

“Right now?”

“... Later. Tomorrow. Day after. All days?”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he turned away. “Greedy, greedy, Yuri. Go to bed now, we’ll see about tomorrow.”

Victor crouched down by Makkachin, stroking over her fur and patting her shoulder. The dog lifted her head, yawning wide, tongue curling as her paws lifted and stretched outward. “Good girl, time to head upstairs, hm?” Makkachin’s tail smacked against the carpet before she rolled onto her belly, pushing up to her feet and near immediately sinking down into a back arching stretch, paws out, tail high in the air.

Yuri lifted his head to watch them both, glasses knocked askew on his face. He reached up, fumbling the clips that held them on, giving up and standing with a groaning sigh. “I’m up,” he said, making the declaration while he unclipped his glasses. “Bed is good.”

“Bed is good,” Victor said, ambling toward the door with Makkachin in attendance. Yuri shuffled along after, stifling another yawn into his hand. Yuri didn’t think hard on the process of getting to bed, trailing after Victor and thinking sleepy thoughts about pillows and burrowing under blankets to escape the chill in the air as they moved through the castle. 

Before he knew it, he’d trailed Victor right into his room, finding himself yawning as Victor nudged him toward the bed. It was only after Yuri crawled in, trying to make peace with the fact he wasn’t changing into sleep clothes, that he realised neither Victor or Makkachin had joined him. In fact, both man and dog appeared to have settled down on the thick rug covering the floor, much like Yuri and Victor had been the night before.

It didn’t make any sense to him.

“Victor?”

The response came at a slight delay. “Yes?”

“Why are you sleeping on the floor?” There was no _need_ for staying close, exactly, but it felt… wrong like this. As if there were some undertone of servility or an inequity that was setting Yuri’s fur on end.

The pause was longer this time before Victor replied. Yuri found himself staring intently at the pillow, tired but chasing his own thoughts. How could he ask? Why did he ask? Did it matter? It mattered, he knew it mattered, but maybe Victor didn’t want him asking, he shouldn’t have brought it up, he might have offended him —

“The, ah… the bed’s too soft.” There was a hint of apology in Victor’s voice, followed soonafter by a question of his own. “Did you want me up there?”

“Yes? No, I mean… not if it’s too soft.” His ear twitched as he sat up abruptly, knowing it was another iteration of the same question that had been plaguing him all day. _What exactly are we to each other? Mentor and student? Cohabitants of a castle? Two men working on solving the same mystery?_ It was all too distracting, a conversation they’d already had. They were Yuri and Victor. “I could come down there?”

He bit down hard, clenching his teeth after. His tail wanted to lash, barely doing more than moving under the weight of the comforter. He shouldn’t have asked. Why did he ask? What if Victor wanted his space like Yuri craved at times?

Too many thoughts all shooting through his mind in the half-second before Victor spoke.

“Bring a pillow with you when you do.” Stepping right past acceptance to presuming Yuri would move after having tentatively offered to do so. 

It made Yuri happy, mixing with the turmoil in his head and surprisingly not leaving him nauseated at the contrast. He didn’t quite shrug it off, but focusing on sliding out from under the sheets, shoving a pillow under his arm and pulling the comforter off. The whole of it was awkward to gather into his arms, but he did anyway, not wanting to drag it across the floor as he rounded the foot of the bed to find Victor.

Victor, who looked up at him with a soft smile touching his lips, lifting the corner of his blanket where it fell over his back. Makkachin was already curled up in the space in front of Victor, neatly claiming his chest and stomach. Her tail wagged once in greeting when she saw Yuri.

It was an absurdly welcoming tableau, Yuri feeling his chest constrict as an emotion he kept avoiding giving a name to caught in his throat. _I don’t think this is the sort of thing that would grow on its own._ He knew Victor was right. He just wasn’t ready to say it out loud, to make it real. Making it real meant missing it if it went away.

 _If_ , he realised. For the first time he wasn’t saying _when_. 

Yuri tossed down the pillow, shaking out the comforter to drape it over Victor and the space beside him. Makkachin tolerated being partly covered, closing her eyes after sniffing at the new addition. 

Crawling under the blankets and tucking himself at Victor’s back, Yuri felt more at ease, closer to managing an answer stronger than his _maybe_ from that morning. Not quite yet, but soon. Closer. Yuri swallowed.

“Goodnight, Victor.” The breath of his words stirred Victor’s hair, tickling the end of his nose.

“Goodnight, Yuri.” Strange, how much it sounded like Victor was instead saying, _hello_.

Yuri fell into his dreams surrounded by the scent of Victor, hearing his laughter and the sound of water as he was swept into a dance that never seemed to end.

* * *

They woke in a tangle of limbs around torsos and legs between legs with Victor’s half-yawned apologies for needing to extricate himself to relieve his bladder. It was first in a series of small moments for Yuri to appreciate. Like the cloud-dotted sky, or the indulgence of two cups of tea over breakfast.

Yuri turned their conversation in the greenhouse over and over in his head throughout, during breakfast, lunch, while bathing in the hot springs and taking the dark pony out for a ride, Victor accompanying him on Philua. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that it was a confession, berating himself the next moment because _obviously_ it was, even if it didn’t make sense to him at the outset. What kind of love was it? Love between friends? He wanted to say that was it, but he didn’t want to lie to himself. That wasn’t what it felt like, but he couldn’t say that what he felt was echoed in anyone but himself.

Two days after he’d shown Victor his greenhouse, Yuri found himself standing over the indoor pond, watching the lazy circles of the _koi_ swimming underfoot. Victor and Makkachin were out walking, taking advantage of a fairly clear day to explore the closest copse of trees on the estate grounds. Yuri had declined to join them, needing some time for himself to think.

Think over what?

He sat on the floor, palms pressed to the magically reinforced glass. What would this half-indoor pond look like during the spring? With the change of the seasons, would the fish flourish? They’d been there surviving this whole time without him knowing. Tended to, would they grow healthier? Stronger? Or was it better to leave them alone, to live or die as they will?

Was it even just his decision?

He still hadn’t decided by the time Victor came stomping back inside, calling out for him as Makkachin marked and shed her merry balls of compacted snow across the stone floors, trotting pointedly on toward the kitchens. Yuri set aside the question of love for the next day, heading down the hall toward the kitchens.

_What if he’s not the only one who has to leave?_

Could Yuri face that? More and more he was wondering if he could, feeling like his answer was less and less often, “ _No_.”

* * *

He still hadn’t decided on an answer the next day, even when he brought himself to stand in front of the rose in his greenhouse. He extended his magic sense toward it, letting the weave of patterns over the rose to brush against him, sinking into the magic.

He’d tried this with most the plants he tended, from the roses to the herbs to the thistle he’d planted in one corner. The thistle, unsurprisingly, had been heavily laced with frustration. Yuri remembered the exercise in what had admittedly been a whim on his part, finding a certain kinship with the prickly bushes in their sprawl. Moreso when he saw how the older ones withered and turned into tumbleweeds, bouncing across the landscape in the clutch of the winds.

Then it’d actually _grown._ From his reading he’d learned it was an annual plant, meant to die with the close of the season, and he’d almost found it pretty when its per-his-reading green flowers had bloomed. Then he’d found it supremely frustrating, as it not only refused to die, but the thorns that developed after flowering managed to find a way to prick and irritate his palms even _through_ the gloves he took to wearing when working around it.

The frustration was part of what helped it thrive. He knew that _now_ , and found it somewhat ironic, considering the whole of the bush with a look of mild consternation. Moving away from the thistle, he walked past each of the raised beds: the chamomile he made tea with feeling calming just as he’d felt himself be calm when he worked in their soil; the thyme and it’s touch of bitterness; snowdrops that carried their small warmth, playful in thinking about the spring that would follow. Hope, but not the intensity of the hope he found when he stood in front of the blue roses, white flowers that took on their colour from the dye he fed their roots. 

With them he felt hope for the impossible. Longing for something he never would have. The ache of a loneliness he’d helped perpetuate, perhaps, for so many different reasons at the time. Blue roses were an impossibility in nature, the improbable dream no one could hold onto. Immortality, for some. Love, for others. A mystery that didn’t exist in the context of the natural world, but one that had called to him nonetheless.

_Until you know love and are loved in return._

“Until I know love…” Yuri held the blue rose, blue through no effort of dye, but instead one of magic. The warmth he felt when he allowed himself to extend his sense of magic was oddly exciting, a little like an adrenaline rush after pulling off a new step at full speed. Unnerving, too, and frightening: it was as if there was a wellspring of _emotion_ he might fall into, if he dared to step from sure ground to a brilliant uncertainty.

He felt poised on the brink of something important, the words _until I know love, until I know, I know love_ chasing themselves around and around in his brain. He stared at the rose, the blue more vibrant than so many colours in his world, and he could almost _taste_ what he was after.

He was pulled up short when someone slammed into the frame of the greenhouse door, stepping into the center aisle with his ears perked forward and his tail lifted, dangerously close to snarling. Victor pulled open the door, hair bright against the outside darkness. Had the sun set already? Yuri relaxed his shoulders, walking forward and feeling concern course through him as Victor caught himself, holding onto the doorframe.

“Yuri!”

“Victor, what’s going on?”

“The black stallion —” 

A loud cry of challenge from the dark horse pealed through the night, Victor grimacing and looking over his shoulder. “It’ll be easier to show you.”

He was back out the door without another word, long legs eating up the distance between the greenhouse and the back of the castle. He hadn’t bothered stopping to pull off his boots, the trail of wet bootprints across the floor being duplicated now as Victor swept past.

The black pony called out again, louder now. Yuri was surprised to see Victor had left the front doors wide open; Victor barely spared the doors a glance as he plunged back outside, halting at the top of the steps leading to the road.

Yuri remembered the rose in his hands before he followed suit, turning at the last moment and setting his precious burden down on the long, thin table on the same wall as the doors. Ears swiveling to fix on the sound of hooves thudding against compacted snow and ice, he made it to the threshold in time to witness another outcry from the black pony.

“He won’t let me get near Philua,” Victor said when Yuri came to a stop at his side, indicating the bay standing in full saddle and bridle on the far side of the stamping pony. “They’re both saddled. I was playing snowball fetch with Makkachin when he came charging out of the stables, Philua right behind him.”

Yuri had no idea what was going on. The last time the black pony had been fully saddled and ready to go had been when Yuri had cast the geas on the rose; there hadn’t been any similar magic upheaval here, not that he’d felt. He frowned, chin tucking in as he concentrated, focusing on his tenuous connection with the castle.

Nothing felt strange. Not at first, until he started probing at the pathways of magic flowing away from the castle. There was a depleted sensation, as if something had latched onto the magic and pulled it all in at once, leaving a bare trickle behind. Every instinct he had was screaming it wasn’t right; the almost frigid brush against his senses as he tried following the thin trickles of magic further had him pulling back, heart freezing in his chest.

Every line of magic pointed toward the city Victor had come from was close to bled dry. His chin jerked up, Yuri turning to take hold of Victor’s arm, tugging him around. 

“The City, Victor, something’s happening in the city!”

The pony quieted, ears perked forward, listening intently to Yuri. He tossed his head and whinnied, prancing closer, going quiet again. Yuri didn’t even look his way.

Victor did, briefly, before he looked back to Yuri with a frown. “Explain please, I’m not following your logic.”

Yuri waved his hand toward the pony, fingers curling into a fist he brought up in front of his face. “I don’t know if it’s why he’s throwing a fit out here, but I _feel_ it. The magic that should be flowing that direction is as close to gone as it can get without running out. There’s something wrong, Victor, and your troupe — they’re in the city, aren’t they?” He’d been keeping Victor away, or been part of why Victor had agreed to stay away in spite of the deep affection and love he clearly felt for the rest of his troupe. Yuri wasn’t blind to it; the concern that churned in his stomach alongside the nausea and the cold clenching his heart had everything to do with not wanting Victor to have to wonder what happened, to have a chance to help if his troupe needed him.

Yuri felt Victor’s troupe needed him in his bones, in the chill that refused to leave his heart.

To his credit, Victor didn’t question Yuri on that point. He reached up, hand settling over Yuri’s, nodding his head once. “I have to go.” 

Yuri swallowed, meeting Victor’s stare with a determined one of his own. “Yes, you do. They need you right now.”

Victor’s hand didn’t move. “Come with me.”

Blinking, Yuri opened his mouth, stopping himself before he said no. He didn’t want to refuse. Victor was taking him at his words on what surely sounded ludicrous. It wasn’t just about being Yuri’s confidence. Victor gave his trust, just as Yuri realised he’d given Victor his trust weeks ago.

He opted for honesty, finding it easier than he expected. “I don’t know if I can. I’ve never been that far away from the castle, I always thought I couldn’t leave.”

Victor kept his eyes on Yuri, giving him due serious consideration. The shake of his head didn’t even disturb the messy fall of his bangs. “I don’t think you were ready to really try.”

It felt almost unfair to Yuri, but he took in Victor’s response, the weight and warmth of his hand, and reached his own conclusions. Maybe it was just in his head. Maybe he hadn’t been ready in the past.

He hadn’t known what happened to Phichit or Celestino, but he didn’t have to live in ignorance of anything happening to Victor. He could at least try to leave.

“I’ll go.”

Victor tipped his head forward, his eyes softening even if he didn’t manage to smile. Squeezing down over Yuri’s hand for another moment, Victor stepped away, striding down the stairs and heading past the black pony for Philua. The bay gelding met him halfway, Victor taking a moment to scratch the horse’s cheek and pat his neck, apologising preemptively for what he was about to ask from him.

Yuri stood, Makkachin brushing against his legs. “Go on in, girl,” he said, shaking himself out of his momentary stillness. She licked his hand, listening to his cue and walking slowly back inside. He stood there, looking into the castle that had held his life for the last five years, feeling a sense of parting that he would never come back from. It was ridiculous; he was being dramatic. It didn’t stop him from feeling that sense of finality.

His eyes passed over the blue rose, sitting on its thin table. “I’ll bring you back to the greenhouse when we return. I promise.” _I’ll be coming back._

A faint, warm breeze stirred from inside, stirring the fur on his face before subsiding. As he turned away, the door gently closed behind him, the castle giving him its quiet blessing. No more time for lingering. Now was a time for action.

It was a relief in a way he realised he enjoyed. Taking action could be the most frightening act in the world. It could also be the most enlivening.

Yuri swiveled both ears forward, staring at the black pony. The impatient toss of his mane was what decided him; striding down the stairs and across the beaten snow, he mounted, keeping his seat as the pony reared and thundered past Victor and Philua. Stretching his sixth sense for magic out, Yuri grit his teeth, leaning forward and staying close to the pony’s neck. He could hear hoofbeats behind him, knowing Victor followed on Philua.

He hoped they wouldn’t be too late to help handle whatever was going on.

* * *

When the magic surge hit the city, the Feltsman Troupe was gathered around their table talking about the space where Victor should have been. Yakov had mentioned Lilia getting back to him with a few possible leads; he was meeting with a friend from his performance days in the morning to discuss magical compulsions.

Yuri listened in spite of himself, finding it both fascinating and frustrating. Georgi had kept everyone’s mood from sinking too low, but the shadows under his eyes were only part of the cost. Yuri scratched behind Potya’s ears, appreciating the cat’s rumbling purr as Mila recounted her and Sara’s jaunt down by the bakeries for cakes had produced.

To no one’s surprise, it’d produced cakes, including the one they planned on eating later in the evening, once they were back from their evening performance. People in the city were both on edge and relieved in the wake of the new moon a few days prior: as far as everyone could tell, no witch had gone missing. After almost a full year, it seemed almost too good to be true. Yuri felt that way for certain. It made no sense, and Yakov seemed to agree, keeping their New Year’s engagement close to home. While the curfew largely applied to the days leading up to the new moon, playing it cautious was Yakov’s way. One that Yuri usually chafed under. Right now he just felt distracted, tuning out most of what they were saying.

“We have half an hour before we need to head out to the Mountain Inn. Yura, are you listening?”

Yuri lifted his chin out of his hand, fingers of his other hand continuing to stroke through Potya’s fur. “Yeah, sure. Half an hour, I heard you.”

Yakov nodded, lifting a hand to shoo him on. “Good. Wash behind your ears and get ready, we’re going to have you in center position tonight.”

Straightening where he sat, Yuri felt his surprise bubble up and show on the surface. The fire crackled in the hearth, an echo to Yuri’s emotions. Excitement was as quick as an uncomfortable guilt that curled tight in his stomach, eyes brightening and lips curling up into a grin. “You’re not teasing me, are you, Yakov?” Potya slipped out of his lap in time for him to shove back and jump to his feet, planting his hands on the table and leaning forward. “You want me in center?”

Yakov grunted, evaluating Yuri from where he continued to sit. His smile was slower to arrive, a small upturn of his lips. He was glad to see that spark in Yuri when he’d been more prone to sulks and moods in the frustration of his inability to bring Victor home, like it was his responsibility or burden to bear.

Seeing him happy with what he’d earned was more rewarding for everyone involved. “Do I waste time saying what I don’t mean? Stick to the steps you’ve been taught, no adding things in this time. You’re old enough to take center, so you’re old enough to listen! Your strength isn’t in improvising with a group.”

True or not (and Yuri knew it was true), he stood up tall and snorted, dismissing the realistic concern. “I know how to —” he broke off, head whipping around to stare at the far corner, sensing a sudden upswell of magic. “What in the world is…”

They all felt the magic as it swept over them, a chaotic, unchecked deluge overwhelming the natural flows through the city. The fire flared bright and angry, Yuri whirling around to focus his energy on it as the bulbs in their setting burst and shattered, a high pitched whine that abruptly cut out.

Georgi was on his knees, hands clutching around his skull. Too much magic at once overwhelming his mental shields and leaving him susceptible to emotion beyond his normal touch barriers left him paralysed, unable to process the first rush of outside feelings that bombarded him. Confusion, fear, anger, a faint thrill of excitement. Panic, despair. Hysteria in the darkness. He slammed his eyes shut, focusing on pulling himself together. 

Yakov grit his teeth, eyes taking in Yuri calming the fire that roiled now with his emotion: one step above the raw power that had surged through. Fire wasn’t their immediate danger; glancing over Georgi, he felt his chest tighten, knowing he had to trust Georgi to pull himself together. Mila ran for the door as Yakov stood and strode after her, the cold of the outside air striking him like a physical force as she shot out into the street.

She spun herself through a short sequence of steps, a twirl and a cupped hand to her ear, a dip and a sway as she looked down the street. Not one of the streetlights still functioned, glass from shattered bulbs littering the shoveled sidewalks and streets alike. People were calling out, children were crying, dogs were howling: the magic brought her the words from several streets away, born on the wind she wound around herself. The breeze itself stung against her cheeks, cold at her ear and tugging at her clothes with a greed she found unusual, releasing it as she spun back to face Yakov.

He could read the wide eyed horror following the comprehension on Mila’s face. “Fire,” she said, and Yakov clenched his fists. Fire didn’t mean only one fire. With a surge as powerful as that, fires were likely burning across the entirety of the city.

“Mila, inside. Get dressed, get Yura, I’ll grab Georgi.” He made a short gesture back toward their open door. “Lives depend on how well we dance tonight.”

He waited the half-beat of his heart it took for that to sink in, watching her expression firm as she swallowed, nodded, and ran back into the house. Her hand went out to catch at Yuri’s arm where he stood at the threshold, spinning him back into their home. Mila didn’t seem to hear his automatic protest.

“We’re on damage control, Yura. Boots, coats, hats, scarves, and the water flasks.”

He shrugged her off, eyes wide, frown pulling down on his lips. Any number of quips had been left behind as he instead listened to what she’d said, having heard Yakov’s clipped announcement himself. “I’ll bank the fire.” 

She spared him a look that was almost surprised; Mila nodded, giving his arm a squeeze before she let go. “Thank you, Yura.”

Yakov stomped back inside, reaching for his scarf on its hook by the door and wrapping himself up before he crouched down next to Georgi. His knees protested the movement, creaking as he laid a steadying hand on Georgi’s shoulder. He let his pragmatic understanding of what was at hand fill his chest, regardless of the cause. He didn’t need to know the reason to handle the results.

He needed Georgi. He would be the calm in the storm of what they were already caught up in, and what they were walking into. The exact kind of danger he wanted to spare his troupe, but in no good conscious could ask them to do less than their best faced with a city on fire. No electricity, magic seals likely burned out by the sheer force of things. Outside the whine of the sirens warning for fire started up in the night, the pealing of bells from the center of town crying out in earnest.

“Georgi.”

Georgi made himself lift his head, tears streaming from his eyes. He licked his lips, slowly focusing his eyes on Yakov’s lined, familiar face.

“We need you out there with us, Georgi. What you can do is going to help keep people from getting hurt worse than they already are. You will be that for us. You’re going to dance us a calming spell to help clear people’s minds. Aren’t you?”

Georgi dragged his hands out of his hair, scrubbing at his face. “Yes,” he said, needing the demand rather than the question. Needing the firmness to lean against when he was being overwhelmed by everything else he was made to feel. Yakov was a focus. Yakov was grounding. Yakov’s word was a path to follow, and it made sense. “I will.”

Yakov studied his face, giving him one firm nod once Georgi’s hands dropped down to rest against his thighs. “Good.” One that he’d follow with a thank you later, letting his hand linger for long enough that he knew that gratitude would translate to Georgi.

He pulled Georgi to his feet, grunting with the effort. Even if Georgi had taken on most of his own weight, Yakov felt the reminder of his own age in the way his back ached and his knees protested. He was an old man, missing his eldest student, but he had three other brilliant young witches with him now.

He had to make sure they all made it through the night. Yakov stepped out, Yuri at his side handing off the flasks of water to him, Mila following with the next day’s loaf of bread tucked into a satchel, Georgi trailing at the back and breathing deep before he closed the door behind them. 

The cries in the streets mingled with the bells and the sirens, the dark of the night eaten away by dull browns and bright oranges flickering over the tops of buildings in every direction. 

Yakov made his decision, striding forward, calling magic to himself with the intent of using it. It was harder these days to stay separate from the magic, to not feel close to being swept away by the inevitable flow of it. He wouldn’t lose that battle yet. 

They hit a fire at the corner, a family of three shivering in their coats as they stared at the fire licking at the top level of their two narrow, two floor home. Yakov shot a look to Yuri, nodding his head toward the building. “Don’t go inside. Calm it down. Mila, keep it from breathing.”

Both witches nodded, Yuri stepping forward and moving into a series of bold steps that lulled into swaying motions, as if he was lulling a child to sleep. The fire flared as he pulled on magic to touch it, weaving into the conflagration, coaxing it along, then demanding. It was more force of will than his ability to create a true sense of sleepiness.

Mila was ready, her own dance truncated, reduced to movements of her arms and an intensity of focus that she seemed almost on fire herself. Starving the fire of air was easier said than done before she matched herself to Yuri’s sway, the fire sputtering and retreating as she kept the fresh air away. It gave the woman filling her bucket time to finish, studying them and staring back at her home.

“Is it safe to go in?”

Yakov looked toward his witches, giving the woman a curt shake of his head. “Not yet. Soon.”

It was the first in several such encounters, running into witches in the streets helping as best they could, following their own talents. He allowed himself one moment to mourn Victor’s absence for the help he would have been now, but only a moment. Yuri and Mila were hard at work, panting and exhausted as they tried to hold back a fire in a series of connected houses too far gone to salvage. A cry from inside alerted everyone to someone trapped in a back room, the fire already consuming the room between them and the door.

Yakov shouted to Yuri and Mila to keep as they were, grimacing and jogging toward the side of the burning house. The last on its block, its side overlooked a narrow alley leading to the back street.

A stone wall. Yakov pulled on his magic, dancing through the steps to his pattern in his mind. He could remind stone of movement, where he wouldn’t have been able to move wood. Stone could tumble; stone could fall.

He planted his hands on warm stone and invited it move, giving the magic a pattern to follow, eating at mortar and reminding it, too, of what shifting like sand and so many tiny pebbles felt like. “I’m bringing the wall down!” he cried out, a bellow loud enough that his troupe could hear him: he had to hope the person trapped could hear him too. 

Georgi was shouting then from the front of the house, Yakov unable to spare attention to understanding what he said. He guided the magic through, feeling the stone shift and shudder under his hands. He stepped back as the whole of the side of the house started to slide downward, a controlled fall as his hands lowered with a firm finality.

The fire still burned inside, but the young man who’d been trapped in the back scrambled out cross the shifting rubble, carrying a coughing young child in his arms. “Thank you,” he said, tears streaking down his soot-covered face. “Natalya hid, I couldn’t get her out, then the fire, and the door, and… thank you!”

One street after the next went by like this, Yakov forcing water and bread into all three of his witches as they trudged on. They found themselves in front of the Mountain Inn, the stables partly charred but still standing, half their horses hitched outside. Isabella and the black dog that’d been plaguing her side since she and Yuri had tried to make their way to Victor were moving amoung them, keeping them as calm as she could.

They were all tired, Isabella flashing them a grim, close mouthed smile when she saw them. “We had enough people on hand to work on getting the fires out before they ate the inn. Yuri, your work on the fire wards is the only reason we had enough time to get most of them outside the barn before they all burned out of control.” 

The dog huffed, shaking its head and nuzzling against Isabella’s side. She absently ran her fingers over the dog’s poll. 

Yuri found himself glaring at the dog, missing Makkachin in the back of his mind. “Good,” he said, a measure of genuine relief in his voice. His shoulders started to hunch: if the Inn was fine, then they would be moving on. He looked to Yakov, reaching up to shove his bangs away from his eye. “We’re going on, aren’t we?”

He nodded, lifting one of the water flasks out of a coat pocket again. “Drink up before we do. You too, Mila. Georgi’s the only one who’s been listening.”

Isabella held up a hand, leveling Yuri with a look of empathy before she shifted her gaze to Yakov. “The fires are worse toward the center of the city. Here, before you go, let me send some of the handpies with you. You’ll need the energy,” she said, tone brooking no argument. She was jogging off with the dog at her heels, tail wagging once. Neither of them looked back.

Yakov was tempted to keep moving, but they could afford another minute or two. Fire crews had been mobilising as they went along, relying on more mundane ways of handling the fires consuming the whole of the city. They could save their energy for handling what the fire crews couldn’t. Having more on hand to replenish their own stores of energy would only be to their benefit.

Yuri edged toward the horse he recognised from their ride out into the snow, letting the animal dance sideways before he calmed again, nosing at Yuri’s offered hand, searching for food with a singular focus Yuri could almost admire. The smell of smoke and drifting ash was heavy in the air, but in the relative calm of the Mountain Inn’s front yard, he could almost find a hint of calm for himself. Georgi wasn’t projecting emotion right then, conserving energy for when it was needed, just as the rest of them were. He scratched at the horse’s cheek, looking around his bulk as Isabella emerged from the inn, bundled cloth in hand.

“Here!” she said, expression solemn as she started to hand off the bundled pies to Yakov. At her side, the black dog stiffened, hackles raising. A growl rumbled through the dog’s chest, tail held straight out as the dog walked stiff legged forward.

Two white shapes emerged from the shadows of the street, as white as the ash that drifted down overhead like snow. Isabella gasped in frightened recognition; Yuri felt his eyes widen, moving forward to interpose himself between the wolves and Yakov. Yakov didn’t move. He reached inward, pulling on his magic to move the earth beneath the feet of the nearest wolf, finding a fierce gratification that this time, he wasn’t being caught days hungry and delirious half frozen in the snow, chased and harried and unable to sleep.

Half dead, the wolves had been able to overwhelm him and Philua with numbers. He wouldn’t allow the same to happen again, opening his hand as he pulled the magic into following his demand. Earth shoved upward, hollowing out the ground beneath one wolf with an effect much like quicksand. The wolf snarled, leaping forward, finding scant purchase as it fought to free itself.

The second wolf charged into their midst, Mila dancing to the side and thrusting her hands out from her chest, the sharpness of the motion accompanied by a gust of wind startling the horses into frightened whinnies. Yuri’s scarf whipped in front of him, the form of the wolf hit by Mila’s attack turning into a tumbling figure. He spun in a circle, frustrated by the lack of fire on this night, of all nights, reaching into himself to pull on his heat and dance it into something he could wield.

He was so focused on the wolf Mila had hit, he never saw when the other wolf escaped Yakov’s earth trap. Neither did the rest, not before the wolf was leaping at Georgi, latching onto his coat and improbably swinging the grown man over it’s back. The fire Yuri had coaxed into his hand was thrust out toward his troupemate in a moment of frustrated, frightened desperation.

“Georgi!”

“Get away from him!”

The black dog sprang forward, barking ferociously, snapping at the wolf’s tail and catching fur in its teeth. The wolf wheeled and ran, the black dog giving chase. Yuri started after them, Mila stopped by Yakov’s desperate grab for her arm. 

“Yura, get back here! We have to stay together!”

“I’m not losing anyone else!” He shouted over his shoulder, racing after the twin forms disappearing into the night. Georgi remained silent, uncharacteristic enough. Yuri could feel the fear coursing through him, lending him an energy he’d been lacking minutes before. He could call on the magic, weave a pattern to the slam of his boots on the ground, harsh and angry and desperate. He’d have to send something ahead of the wolf, cut off its pathway and bring it back around to facing him, so he could get at Georgi —

A blur of white slammed into Yuri’s side, the second wolf leaping and tackling him to the ground. His shoulder hit first, bearing the brunt of the weight of the both of them, feeling close to shattering in the moment of contact. He barely managed to protect his head, crying out in pain.

The wolf opened its maw, biting into Yuri’s scarf and shaking its head as Yuri tried to collect all his magic back to him, the whole of his weaving interrupted by the wolf’s attack. The harder he reached for it, the harder it was to find: in its place, he felt an overwhelming compulsion, one he fought against without understanding what it was pushing him to do.

_HOLD ON._

His fingers curled into the fur of the wolf, Yuri rising to his knees, the wolf standing.

 _STAY QUIET_.

He opened his mouth, hissing out a protest when his voice wouldn’t let him scream. He had a sudden insight into Georgi’s silence, anger and fear surging powerfully through him as he found the wolf pulling him onto its back, a tug on Yuri’s scarf jerking him forward. He could hear someone shouting out his name, a thundering of hooves at his back, but he couldn’t look around.

The wolf bore him off at a run, streaking past the nightmare landscape of the burning city as it headed toward the outskirts of the city. Yuri fought at the compulsion the whole time, forcing one of his fingers to start loosening its grip in the animal’s fur. The wolf growled, the compulsion to _HOLD ON_ pressing down even harder against Yuri’s senses.

He grit his teeth, swallowing his fear and frustration, mind scrambling for solutions. Patterns. All magic had patterns. He could figure this one out too, like Georgi must be doing out there in the ash-snowing darkness.

Before it was too late.

* * *

Victor and Yuri saw the haze of brown and orange above the line of trees as the pony and Philua pushed on toward the city. It chilled him at his core, the tight focus he had since Yuri had made his demand and plea on the steps of the castle. Yuri, who had hesitated to go, who had then lead them in their mad dash to try and help a situation of which they knew nothing.

There was no point to consider what if’s or maybes. When they reached the city, they’d know what they faced, not before. He held onto that truth, avoiding borrowing the trouble that would let worry sweep through him unchecked otherwise.

Cresting the rise of the hill leading down one of the main roads into the city, he halted, Philua breathing hard beneath him.

The city stretched before them, a haze of dotted darkness and brilliant orange, burning through every district. Not as large as feared; small comforts as the pealing of bells and the sirens for the fire teams echoed below. Still far too much chaos, far too much damage and danger on the last night of the old year.

Nudging Philua on, he turned toward Yuri, ready to take over guiding them to where his troupe lived. From here their section of the city looked darker than others, though what it meant was up for interpretation. The damage might already be done.

Surprise struck swiftly as he saw Yuri staring down the slope in the other direction. “Victor, there are people there.” Yuri’s rolling gesture with his hand directed his attention; sure enough, shadows of people milled within a barred structure reflecting the distant light of fire in the city. Other shapes moved around the perimeter: a wolf, he thought.

Two problems, both involving lives. There was no good reason for people to be locked in a cage of any kind out here, let alone one so conspicuously placed. A trap? It might be, but for whom?

The question lost relevance as Yuri and the dark pony struck off toward the people in their glittering cage. Turning Philua’s head to follow, he frowned, uncertainty and a certain regret burning in his chest.

_Be safe, Yakov, Yura, Mila, Georgi. Potya too. I’ll be there as soon as I can._

It wasn’t a lie if he believed in it too.

Their horses locked their legs and dropped haunches, sliding down a portion of snow-covered hill to save energy. Pathways cut through the snow made for easier going as they approached, posting while the horses picked up into a trot. Closer now, he saw the glint of light off ice, a pull of magic permeating the clearing to the side of the cage made entirely of ice. Stretching his senses out to brush against the magic, he almost recoiled, the revulsion of the reinforcement spell woven over the cage was so strong.

Yuri’s chin tucked down toward his chest, ears pointed forward, unwavering. Dismounting, he tossed the reins over the pommel, patting the black pony’s neck in thanks. “I’ve felt magic like this before. It’s so much like hers, Victor.” Looking his way, dark eyes framed in a dark face, Yuri pleaded without words. “We have to get them out.”

A fondness mixed with pride brushed past the tight core of tension in Victor’s stomach. He nodded, dismounting and crossing his reins over his saddle’s pommel. Slapping Philua on the shoulder, he moved toward Yuri, a sense of purpose settling over him.

“We do. Do you recognise the touch of this magic?”

“Yeah. Not with water, but before, in the castle…” Yuri tapped a hand over his breastbone, implicating his heart. “When I was changing back. Something in this magic reminds me of then.”

He nodded, coming to a stop beside him. “Then we’ll have you lead this dance. Agreed?”

Yuri only nodded once in response. 

Victor cupped his hands around his mouth, not wanting to go closer to the pull of magic on the ice cage. They’d perform their magic from here, working together. “We’re going to work on getting you all out! Please be patient, there’s a nasty spell on the ice we need to work on first.”

With the responding cries of relief and begging for what they couldn’t provide, Yuri squared his shoulders, hands held up, level with his heart. He’d been the lead dancer before when they’d practiced at the castle. He’d lead them through this, knowing Victor would be there to steady him if he started to falter.

Victor followed his movements, hands lifting, legs moving a shoulders width apart. The magic responded to the both of them, weaving between them as they started to dance. Not quite together, but in parallel mirrors to each other; Yuri ducking as Victor stepped out and spun around, coming to his left side. Yuri lifting a hand, Victor’s fingers brushing against the back of his knuckles before Yuri spun himself out in turn. They could bring the cage of ice down, unraveling the magic that formed it, reinforcing the ice itself. The cold figures huddled inside pleaded and warned: one screamed, piercing and shrill, joined by cries of, “The wolves!”

Victor chanced a look to the side, three of the massive wolves he’d encountered weeks before arraying themselves to their left. Their focus was centered on the pair of them, heads lowering as lips slowly pulled back from their teeth.

No. The wolves were only following _his_ movements. Whatever the reason, they were watching Victor more than Yuri. 

“Victor?” 

They stepped closer to each other, a half turn bringing them face to face. Victor lifted his hands, keeping his palms flat. Yuri mirrored the action, ears flicking, expression set.

“Keep working on dancing them out of their cage. I know you can do it Yuri.”

“You can’t tell me you’re facing the wolves on your own!” Spinning away, Yuri shifted backward, Victor meeting him as he stepped forward, their feet still tracing out the pattern on the ground. His hand came to rest against the middle of Yuri’s back: a brief touch before they were side by side, dropping their left shoulders in tandem, reaching for the ground in an exaggerated motion.

“I’m not. I’m suggesting I focus on the wolves while you focus on getting those people out. I can hold them off until then.” He flashed a smile, small and tight. 

Yuri hated it, but he still stepped according to the dance he and Victor had been learning together. One kind of footwork they were adapting for what they wanted the magic to do here; flow through the existing weave of magic and unwind it all. 

He could do this. Success might not be guaranteed, but he’d try, and that kept him from stumbling as he gave in to Victor’s request. “Don’t take them on. Hold them off. I won’t keep you waiting for long, I promise.” He would not, could not let Victor face the wolves on his own for long.

Even if it was only three right now, the rest of the pack could be anywhere. Why in the world were they here? Surely the wolves hadn’t built a cage of ice and woven absorption spells over it?

He grit his teeth, lips pulling back, feeling Victor shift pattern, leaving Yuri to carry forward as he stomped down with both feet and grounded himself, matching the pulse of his pattern to the beat of his heart. There was no music to use, not out here; only the thump of their feet, the blood rushing through him, his inhalations and exhalations. The calls of the trapped became so much white noise, Yuri’s focus turned inward.

 _I can do this. He believes I can, even if I don’t. He’s depending on me doing my part._ He danced faster, feeling the magic start to unravel. His ears flicked forward, as if he could hear the magic start to flow into the new pattern it was pulled it toward. 

Magic snapped back against his senses the moment the spell broke, fully undone, magic draining away into the landscape. The ice cage was left standing, but the spell over it, the one that wouldn’t have let anyone break in or break out, was gone. Now it could be as simple as calling the ice apart, Victor’s affinity for handling that form of water magic making it simpler than the whole of their dance before.

He spun around, looking for Victor, ready to help him fight off the wolves and buy them the time they needed to set the captives free. More of the wolves had arrived, some with passengers in tow. The young man Victor called Yura sat astride a wolf, face locked into a mask of frustration and anger. 

His wolf slowed to a stop, ears pressed back against its skull as it glanced between Victor and his jagged stalagmites of ice thrusting up from the snows, driving off the other wolves. It shook itself, Yura sliding off into the snow. A flurry of flakes lifted in the air at his impact, but the wolf was charging forward to leap at Victor, who spun out to the side and clapped his hands, the sharp motion outward with his right hand accompanied by snow solidifying into another ice spike. The wolf jerked to the side at the last moment, hitting the spike off center, snapping at ice as it landed hard and yelped.

Yuri was already moving, scrambling for the magic and weaving it now into a pattern his body flowed through, a dramatic step out to the left and a kick of his foot, arm lifting high, fingers pointed skyward. His arm swept down, hand turned flat and pulled back up in front of his navel, palm down. He pushed out as he brought his other arm out to the side, snow stirring and lifting to fly in the faces of two wolves in a blinding flurry.

The wolves fell back, shaking themselves off while snarling. Another licked at their foot, the blood streaking up their leg from a glancing blow with a spike of ice testament to Victor’s efficiency. Yuri stepped closer, pausing at his side, his hold on the magic loose. Fighting required a different sort of dance than what they’d practiced, changing and redirecting magic at a moment’s notice. Still, it reminded him of dancing to clean, of the surprise when Victor would spin him out, or the mirrored amusement in Victor’s eyes when Yuri would send water swirling his way.

Small things, all of those. The contents of two mugs of water, or one bucket laced with lemon, not the whole of a landscape and whatever Yuri could pull from it, could make respond to his magic’s call.

“I saw one of the wolves come in with Yura. I think it was him,” Yuri said, Victor frowning at his side.

“Then they’re really the ones bringing people in. Witches?” Victor lifted his gaze toward the ice barred cage that stood without its magic barriers, hearing the people inside calling out their warnings. _There’s more! More wolves behind you!_

Spinning around and stomping, Victor’s hands dipped down to his hips and pulled up as if he were lifting something heavy from the floor, shoving it down again once he reached the level of his shoulders. He stepped forward into the motion, turning it into a sweeping motion of his hands and arms and body, a sheet of ice rising like a frozen wave from the snows, crashing against the wolves who’d sought to come at them from behind.

“I think so,” Yuri said at his side, breathing hard as he finished his own swaying step, hands cupped together and brought up before his face. A wolf edging around the short wall of ice Victor’s dancing had left behind found itself with a muzzle full of ice and snow, yelping and jerking backward, pawing desperately at its face. The force of Yuri’s magic left it dripping blood from small cuts over its face, sneezing violently to free up its nasal passages. Dark as it was, the white fur still showed injury with startling clarity against the snow. “With the barriers gone, they might be able to break out on their own.”

A low, lilting laugh at Yuri’s back sent a chill shooting down his spine. He whirled around, Victor moving in tandem, the two of them ending up shoulder to shoulder. Yuri froze as he took in the sight of the tall, terrifyingly beautiful person who stood before them. Starlight seemed to collect in their hair, reflecting in the depth of their eyes like cold diamonds. Fine, white robes draped their form, fluttering gently in the night’s breeze. There was something oppressive in looking at the fae, feeling the weight of their regard leveled on him.

“Prince of Beasts,” they said, tipping their head forward to Yuri. “You object to our providing you with provision for a larger court?” They gave a gentle shake of their head, gliding closer without seeming to move at all. The wolves shifted behind them, arranging themselves in a ring around the three figures: Yuri, Victor, and the Winter Fae.

“What are you talking about?” Yuri felt himself tremble, memories from five years past rising sharp and vivid. He could taste something sour on the back of his tongue, the elation and adrenaline from his magic working earlier being overwhelmed by the anxiety rising in his chest. It was her. Them? It was the one he’d thought was a woman, who’d been anything but, no human but one of the Good Neighbours. 

_My fault_ , he thought, not wanting to hear their answer. _This is all my fault._ Illogical and impossible, to think he’d influenced this fae presence to be here now, to taunt and chide him over a court that didn’t exist. He hadn’t broken the curse. He had been powerless before it.

They chuckled, reaching out to touch the fur on the side of his face. It was misleading, how tender and yet horrifying that caress was, turning his face forcibly away from the man at his side.

“They’re all yours,” they said, lips curving up into a thin smile. “Every animal in fur that stands here before you, crafted on those moonless nights with the magic I gifted you with. The beautiful ones, and the dark ones alike.”

“No,” he said, shivering, eyes widening. He could feel Victor at his shoulder, but he couldn’t make himself look his way. Here was the proof that Yuri was an even larger monster than they’d known. That he was responsible for so much more than he’d understood. “That can’t be. I couldn’t, I wouldn’t have —”

“You did. Loneliness can be such a terrible burden, little Prince. We know.” Their hand stroked along the side of his muzzle, one chill finger tapping on the end of his nose. “A heart looks for what it does not have. Isn’t that the way your poetry speaks of love? A longing, a hunger that looks to be filled. We have hungered. We have hunted, as have you, every time the moon leaves the sky to the stars alone. It was our blessing in this little game of ours.”

Victor’s hand took hold of his own, giving it a squeeze. Yuri squeezed back, swallowing down the bile climbing the back of his throat. “It’s no blessing. 

“You chose your victims, Prince. Greedy, greedy as you are, taking one after another with the magic in them. What were you looking for? Love in the magic?”

Victor reached out, hand encircling the wrist of the fae. It wasn’t wise. No direct engagement with them really was, and the overwhelming power of their terrible beauty alone was enough to leave him feeling unsettled, but he’d had enough of this. In a calm, cold voice, he spoke with carefully enunciated clarity. “Looking for an answer. When faced with a problem in magic, you turn to those who know magic to help. He’s been trying to find a way to end this on his own, and when that didn’t work, some part of him went looking for people who might be able to help.”

Yuri breathed in sharp. If it was the words or the way Victor had touched the fae, even Yuri wasn’t sure. “Victor —”

The Winter Fae drew their lips back, baring their teeth in a thin approximation of a smile. With a curt twist of their wrist they broke Victor’s loose hold, staring at him with an anger colder than his charging the air. “Ah, how quaint. We had wondered who it was teaching you your new tricks, Prince of Beasts. Delightful. Did you choose it for its name? No matter.”

The fae lashed out, hand clutching at Victor’s chest, dragging him forward a half staggering step. “A consort has no need for a toy of which we do not approve, pretty or not.”

There was precious little time to react. Victor reached for magic, using the raw force of it to push back against the weave he felt being forced on him, into his heart. It wasn’t enough; he felt that in the moment where he cried out, pain lancing through him. He jerked back, knees giving out, falling with Yuri’s hand still clutched in his own. Yuri called out too, twisting and trying to catch Victor with a shout of his name. He felt the cold slap of magic against his fur, the sudden sharp pain as his body twisted, collapsing over Victor as the transformation was forced on him. Limbs lengthening, hips reversing with a crack and pop echoing too loud in his own ears. Clothing absorbed and overgrown, the only trick he’d never been able to learn done so effortlessly under the fae’s magic.

“Make him part of your court if you will, Beast. Save him so he may serve you. And after you are done, finish this work with the ones your court has so kindly gathered together. We grow bored with this waiting. It would serve you well not to try our patience for a third time.” They smiled, stepping forward and smoothing down the fur over his poll. The lack of anything close to human empathy was frightening, jarring, but as they turned and started to walk to the edge of their circle in the snow, Yuri rose. Four shaking legs and an overwhelming determination, an anger and a fear for Victor and the people in the ice cage beyond them, a fear for Yura in the snow, for the city, coursing through him.

He stepped toward the fae, opening his mouth, forcing his inadequate voice to form a word. “No.” 

Yuri didn’t hear the other horse come charging up, didn’t see the two women clinging to his back anymore than he’d seen the black dog earlier, or seen Georgi dumped in the snow as Yuri Plisetsky had been. He didn’t see Yuri Plisetsky sit up, the compulsion that had held him still and slowly freezing to death dispelling in the backlash of the fae’s burst of magic. He did see Yuri when he rushed for Victor, lowering his massive tail in a moment’s regret.

He squared off with the Winter Fae, tail lifting higher in challenge. They wanted him to work magic he hadn’t known he’d used on others, twisting their forms away from what they knew, making them something like he was, only even les human. Paws didn’t make up for hands; the voice he had now couldn’t form the words he would shout if he was able. His _no_ had taken more than he expected, but the fae had heard. They had turned toward him, chin tipped up, staring down the length of their nose.

“The Beast speaks?”

He would do more than speak. The fae said it was their magic that had given him the ability to do what? Turn witches into wolves, if he believed them. He did, with a terrible, sinking certainty, but the same certainty touched on the confidence that lay gasping for air on the ground behind him.

Victor had stayed with him, helping him weave through the magic that had warped his body over the years, countless transformations as painful as each other finally calmed into something bearable. Any magic Yuri had done, any pattern he had danced, he could undo.

No spell was made without having its own unmaking laid out in the process. He wasn’t eighteen and frightened, passed out on a cold night only to wake alone and abandoned by everything he knew as familiar. He had suffered, yes, and he had learned. Magic should be respected, but he wouldn’t let it use him again, wouldn’t let himself be the conduit to others harm.

Victor had reminded him of the joy he’d once known in that control, that beautiful give and take with a natural part of the world that he’d been born with the grace to reach out and find reaching back to him. He would not do as the fae asked.

Yuri stood on four paws before her, feeling the magic swirl all around him. Anger and fear and determination chased each other in ever-tightening circles through his chest, and he swallowed, dipping his head to them in a bow of acknowledgement. He had the magic. He _knew_ the magic.

He took his first step in the pattern burned through his core, and Yuri _danced_. The sweep of his tail a countermeasure in elegance as he dipped and spun and jump, unweaving the magic that held him in its grasp, coaxing it into dissipating along the flows of magic through the region. Like undamming a river, but slowly, to not overwhelm what lay further downstream.

He pulled on the truth he’d known when he was younger, back before any of this, when he’d loved dancing for the sake of dancing. When he’d loved magic for the sake of magic, and its potential to help. When he’d seen the same love in Celestino’s face before he would laugh, boisterous and uplifting, direct at other times in his corrections. The love he’d recognised in Phichit, unfettered and joyous.

Love, he found, was not so narrow as he’d once mistaken it to be. _Until you know love and are loved in return._ He remembered the vague sound of his mother’s voice, tucking him into bed at night and wishing him good dreams. Saying _I love you, my little Yuri_ , and brushing his bangs back off his forehead. 

He remembered his father walking with him under the boughs of maple trees whose leaves were turning colours with the change of the seasons. How his father had turned to him and said, _What you do is as beautiful as this, son. Next year, will you dance at the festival?_

He remembered his sister, dusting off her sleeve after coming in from the market, glancing up at him when he’d just come home from a circuit with Celestino. _The traveling son returns_ , she had said, and he’d apologised. A wave of her hand as she slipped out of her shoes and into slippers had forestalled anything more. _Did I say that was a bad thing? You’re doing what you love, aren’t you? I can support that. Just remember to come home every so often. Remind us what you look like._

He remembered the pride in Celestino’s voice when Yuri mastered a new dance; the pride that shone through for Phichit as he struggled and fought to learn, too. Pride that was warm with love for his students, that had carried them both through on long days and nights far away from home. He remembered Phichit staying up late as the campfire burned to embers, or as the lights in the inns were switched off in the early morning hours, talking about dancing, and dances, and the local ones he knew. The way they discussed and shared and mused over what they’d achieve one day, on what stage they’d dance, which magics they would learn and take home when this circuit was over.

He’d loved them. He loved them now, still; his well-traveled mentor, his first close friend. As he loved his family, with their blurry features and muffled voices, slowly lost to time. As he loved the work he did in his greenhouse and in the gardens. As he loved the feeling that coursed through him now, knowing the ways he should move, feeling the magic respond, and knowing he could handle it, even if he stumbled.

He spared a glance for Victor where he lay unmoving on the ground, Yuri Plisetsky straddled protectively over him, Mila guarding his back, facing the opposite direction. The white wolves hung in their semi-circle, all eyes on Yuri; Yuri, who pushed up onto his hind legs as the magic unraveled under his guidance, finding himself dancing on two feet instead of four.

He didn’t know what to make of the stillness from the wolves. He didn’t have time to care. The dark pony and the black dog stood by the ice barred cage holding the rest of the witches, Isabella using the blunt side of an ax to chip at the ice. It was the Fae, in all their painful beauty, that Yuri had to remain focused on, his gaze locking with theirs for the duration of a breath. 

Magic thrummed around him, and he reached out for more of it, letting himself be greedy, to hold on to the confidence that he needed to siphon it away from the Fae. Familiar patterns teased at his awareness, and he latched on, forcing the magic to follow his steps as he clapped his hands and spun around, arching his back and lifting an arm toward the sky. He could imagine tendrils of magic tied to his hand like so many fishing lines tossed into an ocean; he closed his hand, keeping his mental hold firm, striding forward and twirling his invisible partner around.

The magic followed, reluctant at first, but his sheer determination to not let go of even one line pulled them all after him as he continued to dance, remembering. Love surrounded him, even in ways he hadn’t expected. Victor talked about his troupe with affection; Victor, who had stepped in to take Yakov’s place because he loved him, even if Victor hadn’t used those precise words. Yuri Plisetsky, who had almost been killed by the wolves that watched Yuri Katsuki dance now, because he believed in bringing Victor home. Both over the top actions and not what Yuri would call well planned, but emotions spurring them on to irrational decisions? That was familiar.

He didn’t see how his own shadows seemed to brush up against him, clinging, only to fall away again as he moved. Yuri was blind to the moment the wolves sunk down to their bellies, shivering and silent, unable to look away. Yuri didn’t feel his legs shift, the joints rearranging, didn’t notice when his muzzle started to shorten, ears disappearing into his hair. He couldn’t let his control slip. He _wouldn’t_. 

Through it all he was remembering love, and the newest kind; the way he’d felt seeing Victor dance for Philua, encouraging the castle to heal the horse Yuri had taken in, expecting a lost cause. The way he’d felt catching sight of Victor and Makkachin sprawled on the rug in front of the fire, the old dog wrestling determinedly with Victor, who indulged her with gasps and belly scritches and playful grabs for her paws as she squirmed on her back. The way he’d been stunned by a smile meant for him that he couldn’t second guess, and the warmth it’d left behind.

The memory of Victor’s movement across his dusty ballroom floor, water dancing along at his feet, an eager and willing companion. The way Victor had sat down with him to eat, and didn’t look away from the mess Yuri had made of himself trying to act like he had a human mouth. The way he’d felt it himself remembering magic and dance as things he loved; how he’d been afraid of being swept away, like he was each month on the new moon.

Victor, who had stayed for reasons Yuri hadn’t been able to understand. Reasons he was grateful for now, but it had seemed so absurd this man with a life and a future outside of Yuri’s self-made prison would find any reason to hang around. The wolves wouldn’t have always been a problem; or maybe they would, considering they were here now. Regardless, Victor had plenty of reasons to walk away.

He’d stayed.

Yuri danced, and he remembered the koi in their pond, peering down through the glass and watching them swim in and out of the house, circling. The love he felt for Victor wasn’t as simple to describe as _koi_ , circling around his heart and burning with its selfishness. It might be easier if it was clear cut, if he could give it that simplicity. If he could say it would burn hot and fast and taper, like a tallow candle, until it burned out or became something else.

As Yuri bent his knees and rotated his pelvis to spin out to the left, pulling the magic after him, he stopped trying to name the loves he felt. They were part of his dance, part of his interrupted journey back to this moment, to when he’d stumbled as a younger man and refused to fall still again.

Family, friends, support, promise, challenge, laughter, tears. Five years of isolation, a greenhouse filled with plants the grew and thrived fed by his magic, fueled by his emotions. The angry words one winter’s night, and the binding magic he’d cast. _A life for a life._

They each had one. One life, one chance to live it. Yuri could see the blue rose in his mind’s eye, petals spread, haloed in the afternoon sunlight.

_Until you know love and are loved in return._

Yuri came to a stop, barefoot in the snow, arms pressed together from elbow to wrist, held up in front of him. He stared forward, eyes determined, holding the magic, fully and completely human. Yuri didn’t see the collapsed forms of other people in the snow where the wolves had once stood. He didn’t see that Isabella had dropped down to her knees with a cry of surprise, reaching for her fiance where the black dog had been moments before. He didn’t see the dark pony collapse and resolve into a dark haired young man.

Yuri Katsuki locked eyes with the Winter Fae as he lowered his arms, elbows coming out to the sides, arms rotating until the knuckles of each bare fist interlocked with each other over his stomach.

“I know love, and I _am_ loved. I didn’t see it for a long time, but it was always there! With my family, my friends, even my mentors. I loved them because of who they were, and they loved me***. Now for the first time, I know someone I want to hold on to — and it will never be you!”

The unbearably beautiful woman stepped forward as Yuri found himself shouting, pulling his fists away from each other and opening his hands as his arms flew out to his sides, fingers splayed. He released the magic into the pattern he held in his mind, based around one image. As it raced away from him, molding the snow and ice it touched, infusing each with a touch of shadow along with the water of his magic, the fae slammed a hand against his chest, over his heart.

All around them, spreading out like a ripple from a rock dropped into a still pond, the snow was transforming. Delicate roses made of fresh powder and ice spiraled up in the dark, blooming under the starlight. In the moment before the fae’s magic surged for Yuri’s heart, he sent a second burst of magic pouring through the pattern in his mind, pulling from deep within himself. Shadow magic carrying his love in all its complexities swept out, moving through the people collapsed in the snow, pulsing briefly in each heart it touched. Pulsing through the roses made of ice and snow, causing each one to darken, almost looking ice-blue in the scant moonlight.

Yuri Katsuki felt the cold push into his chest, reaching for his heart, snowflakes whirling all around him as he turned toward Victor. He didn’t have breath for the words he wanted; his vision was blurry than normal, showing him shadows and forms, fading fast. _Thank you_ , he mouthed, finding himself smiling.

His world went dark as he lost consciousness, collapsing in the snow.

* * *

Yuri Plisetsky shuddered as the magic rolled through, clutching at his chest while feelings he had a hard time naming swelled in his chest. His fingers curled into the material of his coat, mouth opening to shout or protest, words trapped on his tongue. He watched the other Yuri fall, turning back toward them, looking for Victor. It had to be Victor — there was no reason for the other witch to look at Yuri. He saw the moment the Winter Fae dissolved into a flurry of snowflakes, an expression of incredible pain and happiness impossibly mingled on their face. He heard Victor’s laboured breathing hitch, heard him call out, voice tight.

“Yuri!”

He whirled around, dropping down to grab Victor’s shoulders as his eldest troupemate tried pushing himself up to his knees. “Idiot!” he said, heart pounding. The whole of the dance the giant fox, then standing fox, then finally the _man_ had performed had been impossible to look away from. In the aftermath, Yuri barely had time to organise his thoughts to know what in the world he’d just seen. A magic working, yes, a witch dancing, but what had seemed to be water magic with the change to the snow all around them didn’t explain the rush that had followed close on its heels. It didn’t explain the warmth lingering in his chest. 

“Don’t get up! You’re just going to collapse again, and I can’t keep you from falling. You’re too big!”

Victor wasn’t looking at Yuri. Or he was, but to the Yuri that wasn’t part of their troupe. More and more likely, it seemed like _that_ Yuri was related to the Beast that’d forced Yakov and Victor into this whole stupid situation in the first place. Not just related to, but probably _was_ the Beast, and it grated at Yuri even more that of all people, he shared a name with someone like _that._

But even those thoughts, and the thoughts that blamed Yuri-the-Beast for bringing the fae down on the city in some way that Yuri-not-a-Beast-at-all didn’t understand, were pushed aside as he held on to Victor’s shoulders.

“Hey!” he shouted, startling more than one person in the area. “Vitya, stop!”

To his amazement, Victor listened. He turned his face toward him, studying Yuri’s face. Yuri didn’t know what Victor was looking for, even less so what he found, but between one breath and the next he was pulled into a hug that had him sprawling forward, arms trapped between them, hands still on Victor’s shoulders.

“Yura, thank you.”

He blinked, doubly confused, tense out of surprise. He only relaxed a fraction as he realised Victor could move again, that his breathing wasn’t a pained struggle. It assuaged his fear of Victor not recovering from the fae attack, that warmth in his chest expanding to include a fierce, sudden gratitude.

It didn’t extend to the embrace. Thankfully, Victor didn’t appear to expect a response, falling back and keeping hold of Yuri’s shoulders after a moment had passed. He kept his head off the snow, fixing Yuri’s gaze with his own.

“I need to get him back to the castle. Will you find Philua for me?”

He opened his mouth to scoff, or perhaps out of surprise at Victor’s stubbornness. No words came as the expression on Victor’s face registered. Yuri had never seen him look so intent, or so close to desperate, as he did in that moment. Asking Yuri for his help, it was… it was…

“Please, Yura.”

… it was too much.

“Fine! I’ll find the stupid horse, on one condition.” Yuri tightened his grip on Victor’s shoulders, tucking his chin in and trying to look as stern as Yakov did when lecturing them about gratitude and responsibility. “You come back home to us afterward.”

They stayed like that, staring at each other, before Victor eventually gave a nod of his head, expression as serious as Yuri could ever remember him looking. “Within the week,” he said. “I’ll see you again within the week.”

He had to decide to trust Victor or not. A city burning, a fae gone, and some stranger Victor cared about living or dying lying in the snow after having done what none of the rest had managed. Though he scoffed as he sat back, taking his hands off Victor, Yuri knew he’d decided to believe. “I’ll track you down again if you don’t.” He shrugged off Victor’s hands as he stood, registering a _thank you_ as he turned away.

He faced one big problem as he left.

He had no idea where to find Philua.

* * *

As it turned out, Yuri Plisetsky also had no idea what to make of the snow-garden of roses, opting to go around a cluster of waist-high “bushes” while heading across the clearing toward where people had been held in the ice cage. He’d thought at first Isabella and the dark horse had managed to break through the bars of ice, which would explain the people stumbling around through the garden of snow-roses. Yet when he found Isabella, she was standing next to her fiance.

“JJ?! Where did you come from! You’re okay?!”

JJ looked over his shoulder at Yuri, face wan, and flashed a smile. It lacked his usual over the top confidence, grating somewhat less against Yuri’s nerves than normal. “Yuri. Did you miss me?”

Isabella reached out and pinched JJ’s side, patting his hip in reassure right after. Her eyes glistened with what Yuri uncomfortably suspected were tears. Little wonder. The person she loved most was back and standing at her side, unharmed, as far as Yuri knew.

Irritating like usual, which almost, _almost_ , made Yuri care about JJ for JJ’s sake. In the end, he was only glad JJ was back for Isabella’s sake. 

He turned his back on the both of them, cupping his hands around his mouth and calling out for the horse. “Philua!” He stomped on, avoiding the roses made of snow and ice with more feline grace, sliding around and between them without much thought. “Horse! Philua, where are you?” He dropped his hands away from his face, grimacing. “How am I supposed to find a horse in all this?”

“You could try looking over by the treeline.”

Yuri turned his head, following it with a turn of his body to look at the man who’d addressed him. Young man? Hard to say. “Why? Are horses magically drawn to stand by trees or something?”

The dark haired young man looked at Yuri, then shook his head, gesturing over his shoulder. “No, but that’s where your horse is anyway. I’ll catch him for you.”

Yuri was staring at the back of the man’s head, mouth dropping open. He slammed his mouth shut, biting back the urge to tell this stranger to mind his own business. He didn’t have time for that. Victor and the other Yuri didn’t have time for that. He tromped along behind him, peering around the man in the lead to see if he’d spot Philua first.

The bay did turn out to be lingering by the treeline, reins dragging through the snow. Unlike Yuri, he had no compunctions about the sudden snow roses: he was biting into one made mostly of ice with a snort and shake of his head. Yuri wanted to march up to the horse and grab the reins so he could march him back to the clearing and Victor, but Philua pulled his head up and backed away when Yuri started closing the distance.

The stranger evaluated the situation, turning his attention back to Yuri.

“Turn around. Show him your back. Horses don’t like being ignored.” The stranger turned around, arms hanging loose at his sides. 

Yuri felt like that was stupid. Philua was right there. Right in touching distance! He stared down the horse for another moment, reluctantly turning around. He crossed his arms over his chest, muttering under his breath. “This won’t work.”

The other man issued a soft snort, looking toward Yuri out of the corner of an eye. “Thank you for trying.” Another pause, looking straight ahead again. “I’m Otabek.”

Yuri turned his head toward Otabek, blinking. Who had the time for introductions right now? “Yuri,” he said, figuring he had to say something. He was saved from having to drudge up any more energy to not telling Otabek to mind his own business by hooves crunching through snow. A nose snuffled at the back of his neck, lipping his scarf.

Otabek had the grace not to say anything, only noting, “The reins are off your right shoulder.”

He reached back, feeling Philua’s nose first as it shoved at his hand, breathing in and nickering. He found one rein as Philua lifted his head over Yuri’s shoulder, dragging it forward. When he could tug the gelding’s head around, he took hold of the other rein, clucking his tongue.

The horse’s lack of concern for the snow roses left Yuri trudging back in a straight path, urging the horse into a fast walk on his way back to Victor in the snow. Otabek kept him company, a quiet shadow on the far side of Philua.

Victor had made his way to the other Yuri, scooping the barefoot man up in his arms. He glanced over Otabek, dismissing him in the same moment as he turned toward Yuri. A nod of Victor’s head, a repeated, “Thank you.”

Otabek came around the horse, making a direct offer to hand Yuri up to Victor once he was mounted. “The way back should be clear,” he said, Victor narrowing his eyes in thought before he nodded his agreement. He mounted with more ease than he’d ever had before, used to madcap rides on horseback in the last few weeks. It wasn’t a habit Victor wanted to continue.

He didn’t have a name for the young man who’d come back with Yuri Plisetsky, the same young man handing Yuri Katsuki up into Victor’s arms. He had his own suspicions, ones that didn’t matter compared to his need to move. “Thank you. For everything.”

Otabek fixed Victor with a stare, nodding once. His gaze dropped down to the man held in saddle. “He set us free. Remind him when he wakes up.”

Yuri Plisetsky didn’t care for feeling left out of the conversation. “You know Otabek?” he said instead, arranging the reins over Philua’s neck and scowling.

Victor took hold of the reins, inclining his head to Yuri. “I didn’t know that was his name. I’ll see you soon, Yura. Thank you again.” Turning the horse away from where Yura and Otabek stood, Victor set off, swallowed by the night. The city burned on below, but the bells had stopped pealing: only the sirens echoed up here. Yuri considered asking Otabek about how he knew Victor, but Otabek was already turning away.

Otabek hooked a thumb toward where Mila, Georgi, Isabella, and JJ were trying to dismantle the ice cage. “Still need to get people out and see what we can do in the city.” Hearing JJ’s voice cutting above the rest, Yuri grimaced, turning to look back to the city. The haze of orange and brighter whites that clung to sections of the city didn’t appear to be growing, but the danger was far from burned out.

Yuri made a sound of frustration in the back of his throat, spinning around and marching toward the ice cage. They didn’t need to know specifics. He already knew what they could do, informing Otabek as he went.

“We can help.” 

It was what he narrowed his focus to in the wake of everything he couldn’t do. 

Otabek watched him go, shaking his head and letting a small smile turn his lips up for the first time in a while. There was something to be said for the young witch’s stance and focus.

Helping was exactly what they could do.

* * *

Victor help Yuri close, listening to the strained wheezing of every breath, urging Philua on.

Even with the cleared path from earlier Philua struggled through the snow, barreling ahead past the beautiful, eerie fields of snow-carved roses. They didn’t seem to move fast enough, or even appear to be moving. The landscape of snow-covered trees and trodden road from their passage earlier blurred past, cold wind numbing his exposed cheeks.

The castle. The castle had to be able to help, to handle what Victor couldn’t. It helped Philua, it’d helped Yuri before, it must have helped Yakov, too, when he’d been injured. All he knew in his head was that he needed to get back to the castle, and then?

Victor didn’t know.

He was through the broken gates leading onto the castle estate before he knew, Philua curving his path with the road, picking up to a canter in the lighter snow under the canopy of interlocked branches over the lower drive. Victor’s grip on Yuri tightened, arm near numb with ache. He didn’t care.

“We’re almost there,” he said, staring straight ahead. Urging Philua on until they were rounding the drive in front of the castle doors proper, Victor leaning back and bringing Philua to a halt.

Philua held still, snorting and breathing heavily, Victor torn between the need to take care of the man dying in his arms or to attend to his horse’s needs. The castle, its servants, could they help? Victor clutched Yuri close, tumbling them both out of the saddle. Victor hit the ground first, head smacking against the ice and snow, the weight of Yuri crashing into his chest driving the breath from his lungs.

Philua turned his head to look at them, breathing hard. He stamped a foot, shaking his head and the reins, slowly turning and walking toward the stables as Victor struggled to catch his breath. The horse seemed to have an idea of what he needed. Maybe he’d hung around the black pony, no, the witch, what was his name? The young man with the dark hair and the dark eyes. Otabek.

Pulling oxygen into his lungs, spurred on by the rasp of Yuri’s breathing, Victor managed to get out from under Yuri, turning him on his back on the drive. Victor crouched at Yuri’s side, reaching down and hauling him back up in his arms, feeling the strain on his body. Victor refused to let go.

He walked carefully toward the castle stairs, the doors opening when he was halfway up. He murmured a thanks, glancing down at the man he carried in his arms. “Stay with me, Yuri.” He looked too pale. Had his lips gone blue? 

No, that was another light. Not the ones mounted to the walls that should have been illuminating the situation. Those remained off. Victor lifted his eyes, coming to a stop by the source of the light. A single rose in its hand-made pot, sitting innocuously on the narrow table against the wall.

 _A life for a life_.

He knew what life he wanted to save. Victor wished there was anything in the entry to lay Yuri on other than the floor, but he couldn’t justify the delay. Yuri could die anywhere. If he was going to live, and Victor was going to do everything he could to ensure Yuri _did_ live, then he’d live anywhere, too. Even on the cold floor of a castle that both was and wasn’t his in the first place.

He lay Yuri down with great care, shrugging out of his outermost coat to bundle it and place it under Yuri’s head after. His hand cupped the side of Yuri’s perfectly human face, a vice constricting around his chest as he looked down at Yuri’s pale, pained features, listening to his strained breathing.

“Hold on, Yuri. Hold on for me, or if not me, than everything else you love. I promise, I’m not letting you go.”

He brushed the pad of his thumb over Yuri’s cheek, seeing Yuri’s brow furrow as the fae’s magic continued to work through his heart.

Victor stood up, turning around to take hold of the blue rose giving off its achingly beautiful glow. “I’m sorry,” he said, apologising to Yuri, to the castle, to the rose. “Things were never going to last like this anyway.”

Not caught up in compulsions and curses and magic that couldn’t sort itself out. He knelt back at Yuri’s side, setting the rose on the stone floor. With his hands, he dug the rose out by its roots, holding the tangle of it in one hand after, as it’d been so many weeks before.

He could feel the magic in the castle around him, the probing, healing touch that tried to comfort Yuri. It was scant comfort to Victor as he clutched tight to the rose, arm twitching as he felt its thorns prick his skin deep enough to make him bleed.

Bleeding, binding, tangled roots: it made sense with a swift surety that had Victor reaching for Yuri’s curled fist, forcing his hand open and around the stem of the rose, Victor’s dirtied, bloodied hand holding Yuri’s in place. _A life for a life._ Victor smiled, feeling his heart break. “You never did specify whose.”

He leaned over the form of the man he loved, brushing his bangs off his clammy forehead. “A life for a life,” he said, calling on his light magic, focusing it in his hand. It was nothing, barely a breath and a thought, to send light cutting through the stem of the flower. To take a life and end it, staring down into Yuri’s face.

The light of the rose faded, the warmth and the love and the affection that had surrounded it bleeding away, pooling between them. Victor could sense it there, could sense the castle’s magic going still in response. The darkness settled over them, cold and unforgiving, pressing in against Victor. Yuri’s breath rattled again in his chest, skipped, then went silent.

 _No_. 

“Yuri, don’t you do this, don’t you dare leave, not now,” Victor found himself saying, speaking past a lump in his throat. He felt an anger, at himself, at the parts of the world he couldn’t change, at Yuri. It held the gaping maw of his despair at bay. He leaned in closer, vision blurring, unaware if he was crying or simply too exhausted to clearly see anymore. “You asked for a life when this started, and I’m telling you I want to spend the rest of mine with you.”

There was no answer. Victor dropped his head down to press his forehead against Yuri’s cool brow. He closed his eyes, straining to hear any sound from Yuri, hand clenched tightly around Yuri’s over the dead rose. 

The magic hit with a force that near lifted Victor to his feet. A whirlwind like and unlike the one when he’d arrived; this one was warm, caressing his cheek as he jerked his head up, reaching out to pull Yuri into his lap. A soft, blue glow encased them both, pulsing erratically. He felt a pain in the center of his chest, cold and burning hot at once. He would fight whatever this would bring. He wouldn’t let —

“Victor?”

Victor looked down fast enough to strain his neck, eyes wide, mouth opening into an oh of disbelief, morphing in the next moment to an impossible grin. Yuri blinked up at him, human face showing the all too visible confusion he felt. The wind continued to whirl around them both, lifting Victor’s hair and tossing it into shifting disarray, tugging at their clothing.

He didn’t care. 

“I love you!” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the wind. “You, Yuri. In every form you take!”

Yuri felt overwhelmed by so many things. The memory of collapsing in the snow, the world of white and shadow he’d been trapped in, the way he’d been unable to get enough air in his lungs to breathe. Now he could breathe again, could see again; he was in a world he knew, hearing words he found surprising in their directness.

Even so, he felt no hesitation. He lifted his unhampered hand, cupping the side of Victor’s face, meeting his gaze head-on. “I love you too!” he half shouted, the light around them pulsing with a blinding brightness and a keening sound. 

Then it cut out, taking the wind along with it. 

They sat staring at each other in the sudden silence, the lights on the wall flickering to life. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then they both started laughing, giddy and hysterical and exhausted in turns. Victor helped Yuri sit up, reluctant to relinquish his hand or the rose. Yuri found himself looking down at the flower, feeling the minor pains of cuts on his much more sensitive palm. There was something sad in the wilt he could see manifesting in the rose already. All that magic, the good and the rest, gone; and the flower’s life gone along with it.

“Did it have to die?” Yuri ran a careful finger over the lower petals of the cut rose, lips turned down at the corners.

“It didn’t die,” Victor said, chuckling under his breath. He brought their joined hands up, pressing the mess of flower and hands and dirt over his heart. “It was in here all along. It’s just back where it started. How well it grows there…”

“... Is something we get to find out together, huh?” Yuri tipped his head back, smile small but certain. 

Victor leaned in, feeling his relief and joy as pleasant ache in his chest. “Yes.” 

Yuri stroked the pad of his thumb across Victor’s cheek, reveling in the sensation of skin on skin. Victor turned his face into the caress, Yuri’s lips parting as his eyes dropped down from Victor’s to linger on his lips. “Sounds nice.”

“Very,” Victor said, distracted by the fall of Yuri’s lashes as he studied Victor’s lips. “Yuri?”

“Yes?” There were a number of complicated things they still had to deal with. The castle, the magic, the aftermath of the fires in the city, their goals for the future beyond that, whatever those were. There were also other things, considerations that had nothing to do with those. Like lips, and mouths, and…

“May I kiss you?”

Yuri breathed out in a warm sigh, sliding his hand further into the mess of Victor’s hair. Leaning in to meet Victor halfway as he pulled him closer.

Sometimes _yes_ was the matter of an action taken, rather than one not taken. For Yuri, kissing Victor was a lot like learning to drink out of a teacup with a muzzle; awkward and tentative at first, but once he had the knack of it, a sought-after pleasure. Though if one press of chapped lips to chapped lips could send a shiver large enough to leave him confusingly hot and cold all at once, his heart overfull and his mind a pleasant sort of blank, he’d have a time of it surviving an endless litany of them.

The challenge held an undeniable appeal. Losing wasn’t on Yuri’s mind. He’d show Victor some other time, when they weren’t physically and emotionally exhausted, when they didn’t have a city to head back out to help as soon as they could. For now, one kiss was enough, Victor’s look of unabashed affection as they pulled back a balm to the parts of Yuri that were fairly sure even now he didn’t deserve this.

He’d work on believing otherwise a little at a time. Until then, and after, he knew Victor would be there, supporting him at his side.

Like Yuri would support Victor, a feeling that carried a ferocity of purpose and promise he didn’t articulate, pulling Victor in for a hug where he refused to let go.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Victor’s arms came around Yuri, holding him close in turn, burying his face in Yuri's hair and breathing in, then out, a huff of laughter escaping him before he realised. Happiness coursed through him, chasing out the dredges of adrenaline and fear that'd been fueling him for so much of the evening. “Funny coincidence. Neither am I.”

* * *

They pulled themselves up off the floor, stumbling into the Golden Room to sleep as much as they could on the couch. An older man walked in, his long, wavy brown hair tied back and spilling over his shoulder. He smiled when he saw the two of them, tired and happy and wondering that he could see his own arm where it disappeared under the blankets he carried. He tucked in the sleeping pair, reaching out to tweak the tip of Yuri’s perfectly normal human nose after.

“Sleep well, Yuri. We’ve got a lot to talk about in the morning.”

Straightening, Celestino couldn’t help but feel proud of his former student, deaf to him and Phichit for years. His other student came to mind, still fifteen in his memory. He hadn’t been able to get a look at him since he found himself back in body. Phichit had already run off to who knew where. 

He sighed, leaving the Golden Room with a pat on Makkachin’s head where she met him at the entrance. She wagged her tail, trotting past to curl up by her masters on the couch. He’d worry about Phichit in the morning. For now, it was time to see if his return to physical form allowed him to get drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't that a romantic kiss. ☚(ﾟヮﾟ☚) (I love you all, I'm sorry, sort of? Yes!)
> 
> I said at the start that the chapter count has been adjusted to allow for an epilogue, so I'll see you all there. Still, as this was the end of the bulk of the story itself (for all no stories really end), I wanted to take the chance to say thank you to everyone who's given this story a read. To everyone who's been kind enough to leave a kudos, thank you; to everyone who's taken time to leave a comment, short or long, thank you. Writing with characters I love in a fandom I adore has been an ongoing joy, and being able to share with people and see them respond positively to what's being offered is tremendous. You've all made me smile, and I hope I've been able to provide reasons to smile in return.
> 
> Being part of any interactive body of fandom is one of the most pleasant experiences I can ask for as an author: I write for myself and for friends (thank you so much, Vagrancing, for everything you've done for me with this and in all other ways) foremost, and it's been wonderful to have people be interested and involved with this story along the way. The same holds true for anyone who stumbles across this in the future: thank you for joining me on this journey. May it have been as enjoyable for all of you as it was for me.
> 
> I'll be working on another long-fic project (or two) in the near future, including over November for NaNoWriMo, and for the upcoming Big Bang on Ice as hosted through tumblr. For updates or short-fic as I write them, feel free to check in with me on twitter @shadhahvar, or if I ever conquer tumblr, @shadhahvar there!


	11. in which victor is told, in no uncertain terms, he has no idea how to properly end a story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens after a curse is broken? A thing or two, one might guess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, here we are with the epilogue! 
> 
> There has been absolutely stunning artwork for this fic by Papillon82, which you can see [on Tumblr](https://papillon82fluttersby.tumblr.com/post/167136834632/fanart-for-shadhahvars-the-blue-rose-a-yoi) or on DeviantArt [here](https://papillon82.deviantart.com/art/The-Blue-Rose-Yuuri-713419210), [here](https://papillon82.deviantart.com/art/The-Blue-Rose-Victor-713421058), and [here](https://papillon82.deviantart.com/art/The-Blue-Rose-Fae-713421528). I love these interpretations of the characters! I cannot say how beyond flattering it is to see anyone inspired into drawing for anything I've written; and I cannot get over all the little details, from the way Yuri's glasses are clipped on (perfection) to Victor's expression as he works his water magic (beautiful) to the malice in the fae and their wolf companion (shivers)! Please check them out, they're wonderful!
> 
> And thank you to Papillon82, who also has allowed me to use the banner made for these on the fic itself.

“... And they lived happily ever after, the end.” 

“Papa, that’s a _terrible_ way for a story to end.” The young girl twisted around in Victor’s lap, frowning up at him with all the terrible wisdom of her twelve years of age. Her dark brown hair was braided back, tendrils of hair having escaped over the course of their day of travel. “You have to tell it right!”

“Oh?” Amusement audible in his voice, Victor glanced down at girl in his arms. “You would tell it better, Annushka?”

“Yes I would!” Anika huffed, lifting her eyebrows in a perfect imitation of Victor when confronted by the absurd.

He leaned forward to press a kiss against her forehead, chuckling. “Then you should take over the telling, as long as your brother doesn’t object.”

Yuki prodded at his sister’s side from where he sat leaning against Victor. “Will you tell the parts about Uncle Phichit and Uncle Yuri too?”

She squirmed away, batting a hand at Yuki and trying not to laugh. “I said I’d tell it right! If I don’t tell the parts with Uncle Phichit and Uncle Yuri it wouldn’t be right, would it?”

Yuki grinned, snuggling closer. Victor shifted to tug the blanket up over Yuki’s lap, listening for when Yuri would be joining them again after checking on the horses. “Sounds like that’s settled. Do you want to wait for your Otousan?”

Anika hummed, cocking her head to the side as she thought. “Yes,” she said after a moment, “We’ll wait.” She smoothed out the blanket over both her and Victor with her hands.

The fire in the hearth before them crackled and burned merrily, Yuki responsible for its lighting. He was about to turn seven in a month or so, a strong fire witch whose mother had been at her wit’s ends when he’d started manipulating magic at three months old. Victor and Yuri kept up regular correspondence with her; they’d officially adopted Yuki last year, leaving the offer open for Yuki to maintain contact as he wished. 

Anika, on the other hand, had come into their lives when she was six, brought along by a group of witches who’d found her living with her family’s goats. Both her parents died after falling ill with the particularly virulent flu that’d swept through the region that year. Yuri caught it too; Victor still thanked everything that he’d survived through the worst of it. It’d been too near a thing for his tastes.

Anika bounced her foot while she waited impatiently for Yuri to reappear. A burst of cold air swept into the room, hitting the back of Victor’s neck as his husband stepped inside. Craning his neck, he felt Anika turn with him, clamouring half out of his lap to get a good eye on her errant father.

“Tousan! I’m telling the rest of the story properly! Papa was being lazy.” 

“Wow, it’s lazy to say they lived happily ever after?” His voice carried his amusement, followed by laughter at his daughter’s instant reply.

“Yes!”

Yuri smiled as he pulled off his boots, shaking snow off his hat. “Fairy-tales end with happily ever afters.” He looked back toward their unexpected family, the children neither of them had ever planned on, the rings neither of them had particularly expected to wear. Not a fairy-tale ending, but one with its own rewards and happy surprises, alongside the challenges that life designed.

“You’re not from a fairy-tale,” Anika said, prim as she turned around and resettled herself in Victor’s lap, even proprietarily pulling an arm across her stomach. Once she’d settled herself back in, she added, “Your story isn’t over.”

“Neither is yours,” Victor said, fingers of his free hand stroking through her hair. She hummed an affirmation as Yuri joined them, settling next to Yuki and sandwiching their son between them.

“The most compelling stories are the ones that don’t end.” Yuri’s wisdom coming out of Anika’s mouth had Victor glancing over to him, eyes smiling as he tried to keep a straight face. He had a feeling Anika would know if he was smiling right then.

“I’ve heard that a time or two before.”

Yuki snorted, shifting so he was leaning against Yuri now. “Come on, Tousan’s here, tell the rest!”

Anika smoothed out the blankets over her legs once more, taking a deep breath. “After the winter fae was defeated, Papa and Tousan thought the castle’s magic would all have gone back to normal. Only it didn’t, because it was a _magic_ castle. Uncle Phichit and Uncle Celestino could leave the castle and be seen, which they were really happy about. They stayed for a few weeks and then went traveling! No one was getting permission to travel over the mountains or across the seas yet, so they had to go and file with the offices in the city, just like Papa. Only Uncle Phichit didn’t want to do that in the closest city, so they went way, way further so he could have an adventure, too. Tousan went to our city so he could file for permission, even though no one had it.”

Victor made a small noise of acknowledgement, Yuri offering a small, amused snort from the other side of Yuki.

“Dedushka came to live at the castle when he realised Papa and Tousan couldn’t leave, and he was the one who suggested if the whole castle was flooded with magic, it might as well be useful, too. Which is how the performances started, and then the school, when more of the older witches came and started settling down. Tousan didn’t turn into a foxman anymore, and more witches made keeping the magic levels from getting scary big easier. Which is why we can travel, and why we went to visit Jiji and Baba when travel off the continent was opened up to everyone again.” She paused, wiggling her toes as she thought. “Are we going to travel to visit them again next year?” 

She twisted around in Victor’s arms, looking from his face to Yuri’s with a small frown. “Aunt Mari-san said she’d show me how to swim in the sea next time we visited. I don’t want to be old before that happens!”

Yuri smiled, sympathetic to their daughter’s concern, while Victor ran a hand over her hair. “We’ll see,” said Yuri. Victor thought he’d been happy to spend a month with his family again, though it hadn’t been as emotional as the first time they’d been able to visit, back before Anika was part of their lives. 

Anika sighed, picking up her story once more. “Uncle Phichit wanted to study all the magic he could, and he learned the best dances to show people how fun working with magic was. He’s back in his home country too now. He sends us letters, since the phone lines aren’t reliable up here.” She paused yet again, tilting her head to the side. “Couldn’t he send telegrams?”

“He wouldn’t get to say half of what he wanted to say if he was limited to a telegram, Annushka.” Yuri sounded wry in his admission, Anika nodding her head with sage understanding in turn. 

“Right, and he wouldn’t send any of his picture-cards either.” Those were her favourite from what Victor knew. Anika had an affinity for animal magics, making herself understood to them and understanding them in turn, and she loved anything that had to do with them. It was part of why they still took horses from the train station to the castle. She also had shadow magic, first using shadows to help hide herself when she was scared. More recently, she’d taken to using the same magic for sneaking into the kitchens late at night for snacks. Yuki, who benefitted from these late-night excursions, had joined her right before they’d left on their most recent trip. They’d caught him dancing the gas-lamps down low to give his sister more shadow to work with.

Impressive teamwork, but it’d still earned them a reprimand.

“And Uncle Yuri?”

Anika looked sidelong at Yuki, wrinkling her nose. “I was getting there, Koka. Uncle Yuri came with Dedushka and Aunt Mila and Uncle Georgi at first, but he didn’t want to stay in only once place. He learned how to properly fight with dance magic, studying with Uncle Otabek and taking the tests to be licensed as a magistrate. Then he and Uncle Otabek were partners looking to help people with problems with the fae-creatures who were causing harm in places they weren’t supposed to, and surveying the flow of magic close to the Northern borders. He’s the most decorated magistrate in all the country! Even more than Uncle Otabek, and he’s _younger_ than Uncle Otabek.”

In Anika’s eyes, differences in age mattered very much. Victor pressed a kiss to the top of her head, smiling in spite of himself. “More decorated, yes, but he wouldn’t have been getting out of those situations earning him decorations if he didn’t trust Uncle Otabek and his experience as much as he does. Otabek only accepts the awards when he feels they’re merited. Yura—Uncle Yuri—takes the attention each time either way.”

“Does he like it better?” Yuki spoke from at his side, looking up at Victor’s face.

“He might, but I think he just understands people need something to celebrate. If he doesn’t feel they’ve merited what people are trying to give, he doesn’t accept.” With an at times too sharp tongue, Victor thought.

“Besides, sometimes Uncle Otabek has to go unnoticed for them to get their work done. People don’t always know he’s involved.” That reminder from Yuri. The magic that had transformed them both years ago was a pattern they still held within them, burned into their memories. Otabek and Yuri could both take on the forms that they’d never asked for, to much better effect, these days.

Yuki appeared to consider this while Anika decisively nodded her head. “He’s a handsome horse,” she said, “He took me out riding once when I was really little.”

“So last year?” Yuki said, laughing and covering his head with one arm as Anika lurched forward to ruffle his hair with a vengeance.

“Hey, hey, no wrestling on the couch!” Victor caught Anika in his arms, Yuri pulling Yuki to his chest with an affectionate sigh.

“Sorry, Papa.”

“Sorry, Tousan.”

“You’re forgiven,” Yuri said, glancing surreptitiously at Victor. “Now, I believe there was a story that needed finishing?”

Anika grinned, squirming until Victor loosened his arms around her. Then she settled right back, patting his forearm like she did with the horses. _Hello there._ “I said the best stories are the ones that don’t end, didn’t I? Uncle Yuri comes back to perform sometimes at the castle, it’s always full of people visiting or learning or coming in from the city there. We have the most incredible gardens, we grow food, we make honey and cider and mead, and we are happy. _That’s_ the present, which is much better than an end.”

“Yes,” Victor said, pressing a kiss to his daughter’s temple, “I feel like it is.”

* * *

There was enough Anika didn’t know, years where she hadn’t been alive or hadn’t been at the castle, glossed over in her simplified understanding. She knew more than he’d thought, had said far more insightful things over the years than he suspected he’d ever said at her age. Yakov usually told him he was right about that, to Yuri’s amusement. 

When he’d met Yuri’s parents, he’d asked them what Yuri had been like as a child. Focused, they said, driven. Not like their Anika, who pushed and listened and saw the world through considering eyes. More like their Yuki, wrapped up in the security of his fire magic, pushing himself to perfect an art that adults were still perfecting, seen times his age. Never satisfied, never finished. Loving, though. Both their children knew how to love and be loved.

As he and Yuri tucked them into bed, saying their goodnights and leaving them bundled together under a quilt, sharing the same mattress, Victor found his mind turning over the details that stuck in his mind the last ten plus years. He didn’t remember everything. Yuri would remind him of things he’d forgotten, a mention in passing that left Victor quiet as he scrounged for an answering memory in his own mind. Most often Yuri took pity on him, teasing and smiling in that at times soft, at times smug way before he’d use words to recreate what Victor didn’t remember.

He always remembered then, reaching out to brush his fingers over Yuri’s cheek, his shoulder, his hip. They were never far from each other by choice, but by necessity and a better understanding of the world than either of them wanted. Victor never felt any less starved for the constant reassurance of Yuri’s presence when they did have time together, alone or otherwise.

Even now, as they tidied the waystop, banking the fire and putting the rooms to rights, he wandered close, choosing his pathway through always by where Yuri stood. He caught him by the fire for a brief kiss and a smile, found himself caught in turn as he finished with folding the blanket over the top of the couch. They were older now than when they met, freckles and lines settled by the corners of their mouths and eyes, a testimony to the passage of time. Yuri still looked younger, handsome and beautiful and enchanting in Victor’s eyes. His eyes, brown, had lost none of their light.

Love had never seemed easy. Yet love had been both rewarding and difficult in the time following Yuri’s release from the curse, when the city had burned under a fae’s whims. The recovery for the city had been stumbling through the winter, taking off with the help of every earth witch for hire and every strong pair of hands willing to lift and hold and pound structures back into life. 

Their discovery of each other, started in the months prior, was steady on its often surprising course. Not easy, not when Phichit and Celestino left, nor when it had been only Yuri and Victor to handle the magic that the castle still was overwhelmed by on the new moon. Victor had gone to Yakov then, asking the man all but a father to him for advice and guidance. Anika’s simplification to say Yakov had walked in and set things to rights ignored the negotiation, how Yakov and Victor and Yuri had put their heads together to figure out ways of bleeding the magic out. How Yakov had sent missives with Georgi and younger Yuri and Mila, entrusting them to make their way to the coastal cities to ask for apprentices in magic crafting and those young witches who craved to learn more to come North. 

Inventorying the castle’s wealth had proven difficult, contents of rooms shifting and changing, the pantry still kept stocked by magic, never to excess. Still, by reasoning with a castle that couldn’t speak and didn’t truly seem to think in a manner that any human could, they were able to negotiate for goods to exchange for the finances that moved the region. Allowing people from the city to help thin some of the overgrown forest on the estate led to the discovery of the river around back, and the development of a mill that ran for three summers before it was shut down, building at last complete.

Victor and Yuri hadn’t left the castle’s grounds for more than a week in those years, but the people who came to them and worked with them were part of the forward progress the whole of the continent had been driving after in the wake of the magic that had cut them all off from the rest of the world, in some ways. Testing for circuits that siphoned off magical overflows through a new kind of grounding so that even the unimaginable surges would be weathered led to leaps forward, reclaiming a world that humanity had refused to proclaim lost.

The realms of the fae and humanity were overlaid and touching, no longer separate; magic had washed through the continent more strongly now than it had for hundreds of years prior. The consequences were far from negligible, but with each step forward in adapting new technologies to age-old natural flows of power, saw the world opening up again to receive them all.

Trains ran again, the fears of engines exploding under sudden shifts in magic mitigated by better understanding of how to siphon away that natural pressure. Vehicles within cities were adapted to work under the new principles being discovered, and the borders keeping everyone away from the less magical stretches of the world were brought back down.

Magic spread, as it was wont to do, following people and lines of power out, filling in veins long since gone all but dry.

Yura, his fiery young troupemate, had indeed learned to fight, demanding Otabek show him the way. Otabek had been ordered to stay and keep an eye on the castle and its keepers; Victor didn’t take offense, though Yuri grumbled about it when they were in bed at night.

_“I just hate that I feel we can’t just pick up and leave, that someone’s watching, judging us.”_

_“We can go anytime, Yuka,” Victor had said. “Just wake up and leave, if we really wanted to go.”_

_Yuri shook his head, groaning and pressing his face into Victor’s chest. “I know,” he said, mumbling against his skin. “But we don’t want to leave this on anyone else’s shoulders.”_

_Victor threaded his fingers through Yuri’s hair, mesmerized by always that he was here, they were there, they were together. “No,” he agreed. “Some time ago, we decided we didn’t want to do that. We’ll get you home, Yuka. Only a little longer and they won’t need us to ensure the magic does no harm.”_

They were free to choose what responsibilities to give themselves, and Yuri’s home of five years, home by eight years by the time they finally set out for his birthplace, was one they’d taken on together.

Otabek kept them generally informed of the orders out for all witches employed as magistrates. Incidents with magic and incidents with the fae were at all time highs; humanity was pushing back and finding what they didn’t understand well enough had no compunctions about pushing back just as much. Yura had understood without speaking about it, remembering his own time and his own frustration feeling helpless in the face of magics and peoples he didn’t understand.

He was a beautiful, strong danger, and he was a focused, inventive dance witch. Learning to fight gave him the ability to protect those he loved, and protect the lifestyles of people who didn’t fully realise they were under attack. When he’d passed licensing as a magistrate, passing his test and the vigil he never talked about, he’d ventured out into the world, side by side with Otabek. All magistrates were required to work in pairs, if not in trios, and Yura was no exception.

He didn’t talk much about what he and Otabek saw, glossing over events, lingering on the best and brightest moments. That was a story left for him to determine the telling, if he ever would. Victor was proud of him, proud of all his family. The Feltsman Troupe didn’t last forever, but he supposed no Troupe did in the end.

Georgi stayed. He married eventually, living in the city and offering his assistance when it came to those who needed help understanding magic that responded to emotion, theirs or that of others. Mila spent a few years performing with those who lived at the castle; she set off with Sara and a dozen other young dance witches as troupe leader. Dancing stories into life that taught as well as enthralled, spreading by word of mouth that there were places to gather, places to learn.

The year that Yuri and Victor traveled beyond the borders, heading for Yuri’s first home, they heard stories of a different kind. Of a young man who danced with inherent joy in him, whose magic was light and fun and beautiful, enthralling. A man who seemed to float across the stage, across any stage he made for himself, smile wide and bright. A man who brought magic into small hamlets and villages as much as the streets of the larger cities. Who would tell anyone who listened about a man who had been a fox, and a castle that knew its own mind.

“Phichit,” Yuri said, laughing helplessly when they found him heading out on the same ship they’d bookled passage on. “Just what have you been doing the last few years?”

Phichit stepped back after their hug, hands on Yuri’s shoulders, smiling with mischief in his dark eyes. “Yuri! What do you think?” He leaned in, speaking at a stage whisper. “I’ve been learning how to dance. And with the borders open, Yuri, I’m going to take it home, and show the world.”

Weeks at sea ended in docking at an unfamiliar shore, traveling unfamiliar roads in trains notably different from those on the continent they’d just left. Train rides ended in a vehicle ride to the well-kept gate of an onsen, the courtyard within neatly swept and free of clutter. Yuri had moved like a man in a dream, standing at the threshold to his parent’s onsen, Victor quiet at his side. He hadn’t moved until an older woman stepped out into the courtyard, carrying a box food-scraps destined for compost in the side garden.

“Okaasan,” Yuri said, nervous fingers curling into his palm. “I’m home.”

* * *

Years later, after that reunion and the quieter ones that followed, as Victor turned down the covers of their shared bed and scooted closer to the man he loved, Victor remembered that golden sun-lit afternoon. He remembered those simple words and the look on Yuri’s face as he said them; he remembered the effect they had on his mother, her shock, her joy, the tears that hadn’t quite fallen from her eyes. He remembered how he felt then, and he pressed close to Yuri now, chuckling at his husband’s hiss of protest against the chill of their sheets.

Face to face with Yuri, staring into those brown eyes that had always been evidence of his humanity, Victor reached out and cupped his warm hand to the curve of Yuri’s cheek. 

“Yuri Katsuki-Nikiforov,” he said, voice barely louder than a heartbeat, “We’re home.”

He knew Yuri understood when he heard the hitch in his breath and felt his arms pull him closer, until they slotted together like two pieces of a puzzle carved by an aging master’s hands. 

Yuri, face tucked against Victor’s neck, spoke just as softly.

“Yes, Victor Katsuki-Nikiforov. We are.”

In a cabin built for travelers on the continent of their adopted home, their unexpected children sleeping but a bedroom away, they found their story, as with all stories, came to the end of one sentence, only to discover after its ending the start of a hundred, thousand more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone. I hope you've enjoyed this ride as much as I have! Stay tuned for my next multichapter work that I was hammering away at all November (this past December has mostly been working on gift exchange stories and Big Bang!!! On Ice).


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